IDDMG  LBWLmHN 


THE  BROKEN  SNARE 


THE 

BROKEN  SNARE 


BY 

LUDWIG  LEWISOHN 


'Our  soul  is  escaped  as  a  bird  out  of  the  snare  of  the  fowlers  :  the  Snare  is 
Broken,  and  we  are  escaped." — Psalm  cxxiv. 


NEW   YORK 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 

1908 


^u 


v^^^ 
V 


COPTRIGHTKD    I908,  BY 

B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 
RegisUred  at  Siationer's  Hall^  London 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  Ca 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


0  iBp  Witt 


!Vil8109?3 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/brokensnareOOIewirich 


THE  BROKEN  SNARE 


"I  TOLD  you  not  to  hold  it  that  way!" 
A  misery  of  exasperation  vibrated  In  the  voice 
that  rose  above  the  shrill  clatter  of  broken  crockery. 
Frances  saw  neither  her  mother  nor  the  drab  serv- 
ant girl  to  whom  the  words  were  spoken ;  but  the 
apartment  was  so  small  that  she  heard  even  the 
angry  rustle  of  skirts  and  the  sound  of  dragging 
feet  on  the  bare  kitchen  floor.  With  quiet  des- 
peration she  laid  down  the  volume  she  had  been 
trying  to  read.  The  noises  robbed  her  of  repose, 
not  by  reason  of  their  loudness,  but  because  their 
quality  expressed,  with  an  insistence  that  tortured 
every  nerve,  those  elements  of  her  life  which  she 
abhorred.  She  was  afraid  that  her  mother  might 
come  In  and  speak  querulously  of  the  servant's 
carelessness.  She  would  listen,  as  so  often  before, 
quietly.  It  was  a  single  remnant  of  grace  that  she 
never  protested,  never  repulsed  the  plaintive  confi- 


2  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

dences  of  her  mother,  whom,  at  moments,  she  pitied 
with  such  passionate  tenderness.  But  if  she  could 
escape !  She  leaned  so  far  out  of  the  window  that 
she  could  see  to  the  left  the  dusty  August  green  of 
the  trees  upon  Mornlngside  Heights.  Masses  of 
sombre  cloud  shadowed  the  hill  and  heavy  drops 
of  rain  began  to  fall.  She  would  have  been  glad 
to  slip  out  into  the  autumnal  rain,  could  she  have 
done  so  unobserved.  But  her  heart  grew  sick  at 
the  thought  of  her  mother's  mournful  solicitude 
which  she  must  first  encounter.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  remain  quiescent  and  let  the  grey  hours 
gather  over  her. 

The  fading  afternoon  light  was  merciful  to  the 
mean  respectability  of  the  room,  to  the  carefully 
mended  carpet,  the  heterogeneous  chairs,  the  small, 
old-fashioned  piano,  the  general  air  of  eager  preser- 
vation. But  in  her  present  mood  Frances  was 
painfully  conscious  of  these  things.  They  were  to 
her  the  symbols  of  that  ignoble  solicitude  which 
poverty  in  her  home  entailed.  She  was  not  afraid 
of  privations.  She  would  have  welcomed  a  bare- 
ness frank  and  unashamed.  It  was  the  tawdry 
trappings  above  the  stark  sordidness  of  their  life 
that,  in  hours  of  pitiless  observation,  drew  from 
her  tears  which  she,  at  her  age,  should  not  have 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  3 

known.     She  heard  her  mother  coming  in,  and  at- 
tempted to  look  more  alert. 

Mrs.  Garnett  gathered  her  apron  in  her  worn 
right  hand  and  wiped  her  forehead  with  it.  Her 
face  was  cruelly  furrowed,  her  brow  puckered,  not 
with  cares  of  a  noble  cast,  but  with  small,  miserable 
and  incessant  worries.  The  scanty  grey  hair  was 
gathered  into  a  knot  no  larger  than  an  egg;  the 
greyish  brown  skin  of  her  cheeks  and  neck  hung 
in  loose,  pendulous  folds.  Whenever  Frances  saw 
the  face  and  figure  clearly,  a  compassion  so  immense 
overwhelmed  her  that  she  yearned  over  her  mother 
with  protecting  care.  The  struggle  to  remain  re- 
spectable in  New  York  on  twelve  hundred  dollars 
a  year  had  made  of  Mrs.  Garnett  a  thing  of  scorn : 
It  had  made  of  her  body  a  rag,  and  of  her  soul  a 
bundle  of  mean  anxieties.  Only  her  mother-love, 
instinctive  and  unfortified  by  intelligence,  had  re- 
mained to  her  of  the  more  gracious  possessions  of 
other  years.  The  falling  dark  now  hid  her  from 
Frances. 

"But,  Fanny,  you're  not  dressed  yet?" 
The  girl  hated  to  be  called  "Fanny." 
"What's  the  use  of  dressing?     Vm  very  well  as 
I  am.'' 


4  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"But  your  father  has  invited  Mr.  Ware  to  din- 
ner to-night." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  don't  you  see  that  you  should  try  to  make 
a  good  impression?" 

*'No,  I  don't  see." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be  a  fool  I  Ware,  I 
am  told,  has  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  if  he  has  a 
penny!" 

"Oh!"  Frances  moaned. 

Mrs.  Garnett  came  over  to  her  and  put  an  awk- 
ward hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel  about  it,  my  child. 
But  I  tell  you  there's  no  curse  like  being  poor.  I'd 
like  to  save  you  that.  You  don't  understand ;  you 
think  you  don't  want  to  give  up  your  ideals  for 
money.  All  right.  But  if  you  have  no  money,  I 
tell  you  there's  not  an  ideal,  there's  not  a  last  rag 
of  decency  that  you  won't  have  to  throw  away. 
Don't  I  know  it?     Don't  I  know  it?" 

The  woman's  voice  rose  to  a  strident  wail. 

"Look  at  me  I" 

"Oh,  mamma,  please  don't!" 

Something  in  that  crude  and  cruel  self-revelation 
stung  Frances  beyond  endurance.     It  seemed  to  her 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  5 

that  her  mother  gloated,  with  violent  self-pity,  upon 
her  degradation  and  decay. 

"You'll  dress,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  yes;  presently." 

When  Frances  was  left  alone  she  sat  still  with 
her  eyes  closed.  Visions  passed  before  her,  the 
salient  scenes  of  her  life,  which  had  tempered  and, 
she  believed,  warped  her  soul.  But  she  also  saw 
the  fine  grey  head  of  her  father,  and  to  think  of 
it  comforted  her.  It  was  only  at  rare  moments 
that  Dr.  Garnett  entertained  a  sense  of  his  failure; 
and  she  was  glad  that  he,  at  least,  however  much 
it  may  have  contributed  to  their  misery,  was  care- 
less of  material  things.  But  his  brief  hours  at 
home  were  only  tiny  pools  of  light  In  the  universal 
drab  of  petty  cares  and  compromises,  intervals  of 
healing  silence  amid  clamourous  discussions  of  the 
incompetence  of  servants  and  the  cost  of  meat.  A 
memory  came  to  the  girl  from  which  she  drew  back 
instinctively  with  every  nerve. 

A  few  weeks  ago  she  had  accompanied  her 
mother  on  a  Saturday  night  expedition  to  One 
Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street.  They  had 
waited  long  to  be  served  In  a  huge  green-grocer's 
establishment,  and  Frances  had  looked  about  her. 
Under  the  sharp  electric  light  stood,  huddled  to- 


6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

gether,  scores  of  women  of  the  lower  middle  classes, 
in  shabby  black  cloaks  and  bonnets  grotesquely  set 
awry.  With  worn  and  callous  fingers«they  handled 
the  huge  heaps  of  vegetables,  meats  and  poultry 
exposed  for  sale.  They  shook  their  heads  in  con- 
temptuous deprecation  of  the  wares,  and  haggled 
shrilly  with  the  tired  and  brutal  clerks.  Upon  the 
shrunken  faces  of  the  women  glared  a  desperate 
intentness  to  make  the  little  sums,  clutched  in 
clenched  hands,  go  as  far  as  possible.  They  grov- 
elled smirkingly  before  a  fat  German,  smiling  be- 
nevolently, but  with  eyes  of  steel,  who  was  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  establishment.  Most  of  the  women 
were  elderly,  but  their  grey  hairs  had  brought  them 
no  vestige  of  dignity  or  detachment,  and  Frances, 
seeing  them  thus,  had  prayed  fervently  to  perish 
in  the  days  of  her  youth  rather  than  grow  old  to 
mouth  and  chatter  over  broken  meats  under  the  im- 
minent shadow,  within  close  hail  of  the  peremptory 
voice,  of  death. 

The  vision  haunted  her.  She  pressed  her  fingers 
upon  her  eyelids  until  she  saw  green  and  scarlet 
circles,  flashes  and  dots.  And  then  a  strange  diz- 
ziness came  over  her,  and,  at  the  same  time,  a  mad 
desire  to  escape  from  all  the  trammels  of  her  life 
into  some  freer,  braver  air,  Into  spacious  chambers 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  7 

looking  upon  cool  fields  and  beautiful  mountains. 
To  weep,  to  cry  out,  to  protest  passionately — once 
only — how  that  would  have  cleared  the  atmosphere 
of  her  soul !  But  she  had  herself  well  In  hand;  for 
ithe  flat  was  small,  no  sound  but  penetrated  to  its 
\itmost  corner,  and  there  was,  as  she  told  herself 
with  bitter  frankness,  no  place  for  her  to  cry. 
Would  this  unnatural  repression  revenge  itself  upon 
her  some  day?  So  far  there  had  been  no  oppor- 
tunity. There  were.  In  her  existence,  few  Intervals 
of  repose  In  which  her  passionate  soul  might  have 
gained  strength  for  an  outburst.  Its  energy  was 
broken  by  a  continuous  clatter  of  petty  Incidents. 

Art  had  become  her  refuge.  As  a  little  girl  she 
had  read  the  sound,  old  books  In  her  father^s  small 
library.  Others,  too,  which  were  not  fit  for  a  child, 
and  whose  meaning  (their  Incidents  and  sayings 
clinging  to  her  memory)  had  gradually  unfolded 
Itself  to  her  as  the  years  went  on.  Then  the  more 
j quiet  volumes  ceased  to  bite  into  her  mind,  ceased 
to  wrap  her  with  a  satisfying  completeness  from 
the  sordid  hideousness  about  her.  Thus,  driven  by 
a  great  need,  she  had  come  Into  contact  with  a  good 
deal  of  verse  and  prose  that  taught  her  something 
of  the  more  exquisite  and  morbid  possibilities  of 


8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

life,  and  communicated  to  her  senses  an  uneasiness 
of  whose  nature  she  was  not  wholly  Ignorant.  .  .  . 
Frances  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes  and  saw 
that  It  was  quite  dark.  She  hurried  to  her  little 
room  to  dress.  There  seemed  too  little  difference 
between  the  frock  which  she  discarded  and  the  one 
she  would  wear,  but,  quite  mechanically,  from  the 
habit  of  avoiding  discussion,  she  obeyed  her 
mother's  command.  She  felt  a  little  resentful 
against  her  father  for  Introducing  a  visitor;  she 
might  have  spent  the  evening  over  some  absorbing 
book,  and  the  young  men  whom  he  occasionally 
brought  to  their  table  had  never  Interested  her. 
They  were,  as  a  rule,  young  medical  students,  un- 
formed, uncouth,  given  to  talking  shop,  and  ob- 
viously afraid  of  her.  Ware,  she  knew,  was  an 
older  man,  and  of  a  different  type.  He  had  drifted, 
Idly  curious,  or  seeking  new  sensations,  Into  the 
medical  school  In  which  her  father  held  a  small 
demonstratorship;  he  repudiated,  she  understood, 
the  supposition  that  he  would  practise  any  profes- 
sion. He  had  a  moderate  competence  and  dabbled 
in  literature.  Such  a  guest  might,  In  a  more  hope- 
ful mood,  have  been  welcome.  But  the  last  few 
days  of  rain  and  humidity  had,  with  their  conse- 
quent discomfort,  brought  out  the  full  acerbity  of 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  9 

her  mother's  temper,  had  prevented  her  from  wan- 
dering Into  the  quietude  of  Mornlngside  Park,  and 
had  worn  her  nervous  endurance  to  a  shred.  She 
could  conceive  of  nothing  that  was  not  weary  and 
unprofitable. 

When  she  had  dressed  she  lingered  yet  a  brief 
while  in  her  room.  She  pressed  her  forehead 
against  the  cool  window-pane,  and  saw,  since  the 
flat  was  on  the  fifth  floor,  a  rag  of  sky  between  the 
tall  houses.  The  clouds  had  parted  and  a  friendly 
star  shone  down  upon  her.  It  moved  her  im- 
mensely, so  white  it  was,  so  benign,  so  different 
from  the  turbulent  Inner  fever  of  her  life.  She 
welcomed  It  as  an  omen  of  fair  fortune.  Some- 
where, somehow,  she  too  would  find  her  little  por- 
tion of  serenity  and  joy.  With  Inarticulate  thank- 
fulness and  supplication  she  turned  her  soul,  for  a 
moment,  to  God.  Her  deep  and  abiding  sense  of 
eternal  things  found  no  other  expression  than  this. 
She  had  been  brought  up  In  no  definite  form  of 
faith,  and  often  turned  with  a  vague  desire  to  the 
Church  and  Its  visible  symbols.  But  the  conditions 
of  her  life  made  an  active  affiliation  with  any  body 
of  believers  all  but  Impossible,  nor  would  her  pride 
have  suffered  her  to  bear  the  vague  patronage 
which  would  have  been,  In  the  majority  of  churches, 


lo  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

her  Inevitable  portion.  Such  momentary  commu- 
nions, however,  with  a  Power  upon  which  the  spirit 
might  lean  often  changed  her  mood.  A  star,  a 
flower,  the  waving  of  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  a  slender 
poplar  against  the  evening  sky — at  the  exquisite 
stir  of  such  appearances  she  felt  the  sustaining 
and  fortifying  presence  of  God. 

When  she  entered  the  dining-room  her  heart  was 
lighter.  The  table,  bright  with  immaculate  linen 
and  a  little  good  silver  and  china,  pleased  her.  It 
was  a  great  pity,  she  reflected,  that  the  room  was 
so  absurdly  small  that  their  guest  would  be  prac- 
tically barricaded  in  his  seat.  She  brought  a  few 
flowers  from  her  own  room  and  put  them  in  a  slen- 
der vase  on  the  dining-table.  It  was  now  time  for 
her  father  and  Mr.  Ware  to  come.  The  process 
of  waiting  induced  in  her,  as  It  always  did,  a  slight 
but  steadily  increasing  nervousness.  She  felt  her- 
self grow  a  little  pale  and  went  to  the  window  of 
the  drawing-room  to  look  out  into  the  street.  The 
lamp-light  shimmered  upon  the  pavement,  which, 
still  wet  from  the  recent  rain,  mirrored  the  rare 
passers-by  in  a  phantastic  reversal  of  their  natural 
positions.  Vaguely  superstitious,  she  refrained 
from  looking  out  any  longer,  with  a  sense  that  at 
her  show  of  impatience  those  whom  she  awaited 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  n 

would  be  delayed.  She  looked  Into  the  kitchen,  but 
her  mother  had  gone  to  dress.  On  crossing  the  tiny 
hall  she  heard  the  trill  of  the  downstairs  bell  and 
hurried  back  to  the  kitchen  to  press  the  button  that 
opened  the  door  below.  Her  heart  beat  fast  as  she 
iheard  heavy  steps  upon  the  stair,  and,  in  a  mo- 
ment, her  father's  clear  voice  bidding  Mr.  Ware 
to  enter. 

The  two  men  came  into  the  drawing-room,  which 
they  seemed  to  fill.  Dr.  Garnett  was  tall ;  his  vivid 
blue  eyes  and  white  hair  and  beard  were  conspicu- 
ous. Ware  looked  shorter  than  he  was  by  reason 
of  his  breadth  of  figure  and  heaviness  of  movement. 
It  seemed  to  Frances  that  his  features,  settled  in  a 
somewhat  sluggish  repose,  might  flare  up  into  su- 
preme intelligence.  He  was  homely,  beyond  doubt, 
dark  and  awkward,  but  there  was  a  signal  of  flame 
in  his  half-shut  eyes.  She  abandoned  her  observa- 
tion under  fire  of  her  father's  cheery  talk. 

"This  is  my  daughter  Frances,  Ware.  You 
two  ought  to  get  along  well.  You  have  many — I 
may  say,  nearly  all — interests  in  common.  You 
haven't  had  a  pleasant  day,  have  you,  Fanny?  No; 
the  weather  has  been  wretched." 

He  became  aware  of  the  young  people's  silence 
and  stopped  in  some  embarrassment. 


12  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

*'You  will  excuse  me  for  the  moment,"  he  said. 
**I  must  get  rid  of  some  of  the  evidences  of  the 
day's  toil." 

A  faint  smile  at  her  father's  facile  magnilo- 
quence seemed  to  mark  the  beginning  of  a  less  con- 
strained attitude.    Frances  faced  the  young  man. 

"Fm  afraid  papa  forgot  to  offer  you  a  chair." 

He  sat  down,  bending  forward  a  little  and  fold- 
ing his  hands  between  his  knees.  There  seemed 
to  Frances  something  pathetic  In  this  strong  man, 
gifted,  she  had  been  told,  with  unusual  powers  of 
speech,  struggling,  so  evidently,  after  utterance. 
His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  had  in  it  a  lyric  note,  a 
chanting  cadence,  resonant  and  unaffected.  It  in- 
terested her  at  once,  as  did  the  curious  directness  of 
his  speech. 

**I  am  very  glad  that  Dr.  Garnett  permitted  me 
to  come  and  that  I  see  you  at  last." 

"At  last?"    She  was  quite  willing  to  help  him. 

"Your  father  is  very  proud  of  you." 

She  noted,  as  once  before,  his  faint,  reluctant 
smile. 

"Ah,  yes,  papa  talks  of  me,  no  doubt.  But  you 
must  not  pitch  your  expectations  too  high." 

"I  was  interested,"  he  said  slowly,  "because 
your  father  told  me  of  your  caring  for  certain  books 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  13 

and  certain  things  which,  frankly,  women  as  a  rule 
disregard  completely." 

**0h,  I  read.    What  else  is  one  to  do?" 

"No,  don't  put  me  off,  please," — the  words 
sounded  very  nearly  morose — "I'm  incapable  of 
small-talk." 

She  laughed  a  little,  and,  with  a  characteristic 
gesture,  joined  her  hands  upon  her  heavy  hair. 
The  light  shone  full  upon  her :  upon  her  changeful 
grey  eyes,  her  fair  cheeks  slightly  flushed,  the  full, 
rich  moulding  of  her  chin  and  lips.  The  loose 
sleeves  fell  back,  leaving  her  round,  warm  arms  bare 
almost  to  the  shoulder.  She  saw  his  lids  open  wide 
and  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  with  startling  intensity. 
A  little  shiver  passed  over  her;  she  dropped  her 
arms,  and  heard,  with  distinct  relief,  her  father 
and  mother  approach  the  drawing-room.  They 
moved  in  a  few  minutes  to  the  dining-room,  where 
the  conversation  became  general.  Ware  hardly 
looked  at  Frances,  but  addressed  himself  with  al- 
most tactless  persistence  to  her  parents.  She  divined 
his  confusion  and  was  not  aggrieved.  The  talk 
seemed  to  her  not  very  Illuminating,  until,  in  dis- 
cussing a  recent  play,  she  heard  Ware's  voice  gather 
earnestness. 

"The  whole  plot,"  he  was  saying,  "hinges  upon 


14  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

a  very  noxious  absurdity.  Through  the  traditions 
of  chivalry  a  good  deal  of  brutal  Injustice  has 
come  into  the  world.  It  Is  firmly  held  that  if  a 
woman  of  the  gentler  class  grants  a  man  the  slight- 
est favour  she  has  thereby  come  Into  possession  of 
him,  body  and  soul,  forever;  she  can  take  his  life 
and,  if  she  will,  ruin  it.  And  yet,  unless  she  is  a 
child  or  an  idiot,  she  stands  upon  precisely  the  same 
basis  with  the  man,  who  asserts  no  such  right.  He 
does  not  demand  possession  of  her,  however  he  may 
desire  It.  She  demands  It,  having  really  given  noth- 
ing that  the  man  has  not  also  given.  The  bargain 
is  too  unequal." 

"But  would  she  grant  any  favour,  would  she  have 
committed  herself  in  any  given  case  at  all,"  asked 
Dr.  Garnett,  ^'except  upon  the  tacit  agreement  that 
the  action  gives  her  certain  rights?" 

"Certainly,  she  would.  For  It  Is  life  itself  that 
compels  her,  even  as  It  compels  us!" 

Mrs.  Garnett  looked  at  Frances  anxiously.  The 
turn  of  the  conversation  seemed  to  her  an  unsuit- 
able one.  She  had  always  opposed  her  husband's 
frank  discussions  of  life  with  their  daughter,  his 
insistence  upon  the  sanity  that  springs  from  know- 
ledge.    She  gave  the  signal  that  dinner  was  over, 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  15 

arose,  and  led  the  way  through  the  narrow  hall  to 
the  front  of  the  flat. 

Ware,  with  a  sensitiveness  that  at  once  pleased 
and  annoyed  Frances,  had  read  her  mother's  invol- 
untary rebuke.  He  grew  silent  and  ill  at  ease. 
They  had  lingered  late  over  their  meal  and  the  end 
of  the  evening  became  flat  and  empty.  Dr.  Gar- 
nett  talked  alertly  and  well,  but  Ware  was  not  again 
to  be  betrayed  into  definite  speech.  Shortly  after 
ten  he  arose  to  go. 

"I  am  not  often  at  leisure  in  the  evening,"  he 
said  to  Mrs.  Garnett,  "but  if  I  might  sometimes 
call  on  you  and  Miss  Garnett  earlier  in  the  day,  I 
should  be  glad." 

Mrs.  Garnett  was  exuberant  in  her  friendliness. 

"Do  come,"  she  said;  "Fanny  is  often  dull.  We 
haven't  many  visitors." 

Frances  blushed  at  her  mother's  vulgar  oppor- 
tunism and  hardly  touched  the  hand  that  Ware  held 
out. 

When,  presently,  she  had  gone  to  her  room  for 
the  night,  she  found  herself  regretting  that  she  had 
not  been  kinder  to  him  at  the  last  moment.  He  in- 
terested her  and  she  knew  that  she  wanted  him  to 
come  again.  She  did  not  put  this  desire  into  words, 
unaccustomed  yet  to  violate  a  final  feminine  reti- 


1 6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

cence,  even  to  herself.  But  she  would  have  liked 
to  feel  another  pressure  of  his  strong,  soft  palm. 
Slowly  she  undressed  herself  and  passed  her  hand 
gently  over  the  delicate  surface  of  her  throat  and 
arms.  Her  own  body  appealed  to  her  as  it  had 
rarely  done  before;  Its  smooth  whiteness  gave  her 
an  Indefinite  pleasure.  Involuntarily  arose  the 
thought  of  Ware.  She  turned  out  the  light  hur- 
riedly and  crept,  shivering,  between  the  cool  sheets 
of  her  bed.  Sleep  came  soon,  but  not  before  a  half- 
dreamy  glimpse  had  been  hers,  a  glimpse  of  some 
faint  vision  of  a  richer  life,  and  of  a  gradual  prepa- 
ration for  new  fortunes  under  strange  stars. 


II 


Weeks  passed  and  Ware  called  often.  Mrs. 
Garnett  speculated  volubly  as  to  his  motives.  Then 
suddenly  his  visits  ceased  and  Frances  felt  the  brief 
glow  of  expectancy  fading  from  her.  The  leaves 
in  Morningside  Park  were  shrivelling  and  losing 
colour,  the  poplars  looked  peaked  and  thin,  and  the 
dimness  of  Autumn  crept  gradually  into  her  soul. 
She  was  often  dizzy  and  tired,  but  the  weather 
touched  her  with  an  immense  poignancy  of  sadness 
and  aroused  in  her  a  new  and  indescribable  yearn- 
ing. Every  vista  seemed  to  her  to  lead  straight 
into  some  unattainable  Paradise.  She  could  not 
look  up  Amsterdam  Avenue,  rising  here  with  so 
generous  a  sweep  into  the  light,  without  tears.  Her 
thoughts  were  not  consciously  concerned  with 
Ware,  but  at  the  vaguest  resemblance  to  him  in 
any  figure  on  the  street  she  flushed  hotly  and 
seemed  to  feel  her  eyelids  quiver.  Passionate  and 
melancholy  books  were  revealed  to  her  with  a  new 
intensity  and  plangent  verses  wove  themselves  into 

»7 


1 8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

the  shifting  patterns  of  her  waking  dreams.  Con- 
sidering some  of  these  dreams  In  an  hour  of  detach- 
ment, she  accused  herself  almost  of  vulgarity — so 
full  were  they  of  gorgeous  places  and  of  Impas- 
sioned sounds.  But,  to  escape  from  reality,  she 
always  abandoned  herself  to  them  again. 

There  was  so  much  to  escape  from  I  The  weary 
rattle  of  the  little  household  seemed  to  grind  more 
heavily  along ;  the  common  meals  passed  In  silence, 
broken  only  by  her  mother's  shrill  complaints. 

"Fanny  makes  no  attempt  to  help  me;  she  hardly 
speaks  to  me." 

Dr.  Garnett  looked  at  his  daughter,  who  seemed 
inordinately  moved. 

*'What  Is  It,  child?" 

*'I  don't  know,  papa;  perhaps  Fm  not  quite  well. 
My  heart  beats  so." 

He  observed  her  furtively  during  the  rest  of  the 
meal.  Later,  alone  with  her  In  the  drawing-room, 
he  suddenly  laid  aside  his  book.  His  blue  eyes  were 
almost  stern. 

"We  must  bear  our  burdens  with  a  gentler  spirit, 
my  daughter." 

*'Ah,  If  there  were  something  to  bear!  Some- 
thing definite  and  worth  while  I" 

"Those  are  the  crude  dreams  of  youth,  child. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  19 

We  are  not  here  to  solace  victorious  knights  or  Im- 
molate ourselves  on  the  altar  of  genius.  God  has 
appointed  as  our  portion,  patience  without  reward." 

Frances  sat  silent  and  disturbed.  She  had  never 
before  heard  her  father  speak  such  words.  His  at- 
titude to  her  had  always  been  one  of  bright  and 
comradely  kindness. 

'Tatience?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  and  in  your  case,  patience  with  your 
mother.  If  she  is  embittered  It  is  not  without  rea- 
son, and  neither  you  nor  I  have  been  guiltless, 
perhaps.  Child,  child,  the  least  we  can  do  is  to  be 
kind  I'' 

She  came  to  him  and  put  her  arms  around  him. 

*'I  try,"  she  said;  "you  mustn^t  doubt  that.  I 
have  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  I  think  I 
understand.  But  lately  it  has  been,  oh,  peculiarly 
hard!" 

They  looked  steadily  Into  each  other's  eyes. 
Then  Frances  hid  her  face.  It  was  almost  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  done  so;  her  manners  were 
not  of  the  facile,  girlish  kind.  Dr.  Garnett  was 
pale  and  grave. 

"I  am  a  physician,  my  daughter," — the  words 
came  with  an  effort — "and  I  speak  as  one.  I  have 
always  feared  the  results  of  your  temperament.    I 


20  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

know  that  you  suffer,  dear ;  that  you  will  suffer  still 
more  keenly  as  you  become  more  aware  of  your- 
self. There  Is  no  relief  except  in  earnest  and  steady 
occupation." 

She  stood  before  him,  strong  and  unashamed. 

"You  say  that  there  Is  no  help  except — to  for- 
get?" 

"Yes,  since  we  are  speaking  quite  openly.  You 
are  not  likely  to  marry." 

"Why?" 

"We  are  poor,  child;  we  know  hardly  any  one. 
We  must  accept  the  conditions  of  our  life  as  we 
find  them." 

"So  poverty  robs  a  woman  of  everything — every- 
thing, even  the  most  elemental  necessities?" 

Dr.  Garnett  played  with  a  paper-knife  that  lay 
near  him  on  the  table. 

"You  put  it  brutally,  child.  I  shouldn't  have 
supposed  a  woman  capable  of  giving  words  to  that 
thought." 

She  came  to  him  again.  The  sadness  in  his  voice 
was  terrible  to  her. 

"Have  I  shocked  you,  papa  ?  You  see,  IVe  lived 
so  much  alone,  and  read,  and  thought.  .  .  .  And 
now  we  have  talked  about  these  things  so  sud- 


THE  BROKEN    SNARE  21 

denly.  .  .  .  No;  you  mustn't  think  that  Tm  lack- 
ing in  delicacy.    But  life  is  so  difficult,  isn't  it?" 

"I  wish  you  didn't  know  that  yet,  my  child." 

He  looked  white  and  old  and  all  her  power  of 
compassion  was  aroused. 

"Truly,  you  must  not  worry  about  me,  papa.  I 
dare  say  I  shall  be  all  right.  It's  good  to  know,  at 
all  events." 

They  kissed  each  other  good-night,  but  Frances, 
in  her  light  and  fevered  sleep,  was  still  conscious 
of  her  father's  step  pacing  the  drawing-room  for 
many  hours.  When  morning  came,  her  head  and 
eyes  ached,  and  she  put  off  her  resolution  to  make 
a  great  difference  in  her  life  until  the  morrow. 

She  felt,  immensely,  the  need  of  some  discipline, 
of  some  interposition  from  without.  Had  she 
lived  in  some  closed  and  definite  social  group,  with 
specific  standards  that  might  demand  from  her  any 
measure  of  true  respect,  or  had  she  been — this  was 
a  recurrent  thought — ^under  the  guidance  of  some 
Church,  her  path  would  have  been  less  difficult. 
But  she  was  unspeakably  alone  with  her  fevered 
brain  and  ineffective  will  and  the  unending  irrita- 
tions of  her  daily  life.  Was  not  God  unjust  in 
making  her  so  different  from  others  who  lived  in 
a  similar  environment?    For,  surely,  it  was  unim- 


22  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

aginable  that  many  could  quiver  hourly  and  dally 
with  these  tortured  sensibilities  which  every  con- 
tact with  the  necessary  routine  of  life  seemed  to 
violate.  .  .  . 

The  deceptive  approach  of  Autumn  was  followed 
by  a  space  of  Summer  weather.  A  great  and  weary 
heat  parched  the  earth.  Night  after  night  the 
parks  were  filled  with  poor  folk  who  could  find  no 
rest  In  their  dingy  flats.  Frances,  too,  felt  smoth- 
ered between  the  narrow  walls  of  her  room.  Her 
heavy  hair  seemed  to  drag  her  down,  and  upon  the 
increasing  pallor  of  her  face  her  luminous  eyes  and 
lips  stood  out  vividly.  She  suffered  often  from  a 
painful  throbbing  of  the  heart  and  temples  and  her 
good  resolutions  became  impalpable  wraiths  which 
she  could  not  touch  or  hold.  Every  afternoon  she 
climbed  the  many  steps  of  Momingside  Park  at 
One  Hundred  and  Sixteenth  Street  and  walked  over 
to  Riverside  Drive  past  the  airy  portico  of  the  Li- 
brary of  Columbia  University.  .  .  .  There,  sitting 
on  a  bench,  she  watched  the  dainty  pleasure-craft 
upon  the  river,  and  let  the  cooler  airs  blow  upon 
her.  She  was  listless  and  unhappy.  The  Intermi- 
nable days  and  years  before  her — years,  perhaps,  of 
just  such  life  as  was  hers  now — appalled  her.  It 
was  all  so  dim,  so  complete  In  Its  hopelessness.    At 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  23 

times  she  drifted  Into  a  vague  resignation,  but  It 
was,  she  knew  well  enough,  only  an  effect  of  the 
enervating  weather. 

In  this  languor  the  thought  and  image  of  Ware 
had  become  dimmer.  She  seemed  almost  to  have 
forgotten  him,  when,  upon  an  almost  windless 
afternoon,  he  turned  from  the  path  and  stood  be- 
side her  bench.  Almost  before  she  saw  him  she 
had  felt  his  presence,  and  gave  him  permission  to 
sit  down  beside  her.  But  It  was  he  who  finally 
spoke. 

"I  didn't  think  you  would  be  in  town  during  this 
hot  weather." 

"We  scarcely  ever  go  away." 

"Why?" 

He  at  once  divined  his  own  tactlessness  and 
frowned. 

"Because  we  cannot  afford  it." 

He  was  anxious  to  dismiss  the  painful  subject. 
Any  allusion  to  money,  especially  the  lack  of  it,  hurt 
him  acutely. 

"I  have  not  seen  Dr.  Garnett  recently,  or  I  would 
have  known  that  you  were  here." 

She  hardly  knew  what  to  answer.  She  felt  again 
the  power  of  his  presence,  heard  again  the  moving 


«4  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

note  In  his  voice,  but  he  was,  as  always,  difficult  to 
approach.    Suddenly  he  turned  to  her. 

"No ;  I  haven't  been  telling  you  the  truth.  I  was 
afraid  to  come  back  again." 

"Afraid?" 

*'I  hate  to  be  compelled." 

She  laughed  a  little,  scarcely  daring  to  under^ 
stand  him. 

"But  ultimately,"  he  continued,  "I  should  have 


come." 


In  her  barren  life  the  event  of  Ware's  confessed 
admiration  loomed  enormously.  The  very  unusual- 
ness  of  such  homage.  Its  uniqueness.  In  fact, 
strengthened  her  self-distrust.  She  could  not  be- 
lieve that  she  had  understood  him. 

"Am  I,"  she  hesitated  still,  "am  I  such  an  alarm- 
ing person?" 

"Yes." 

The  word  came  with  unmlstakeable  meaning.  It 
was  clearly  Impossible  to  turn  him  from  his  serious- 
ness. 

"You  have  immense  vitality,"  he  said,  "curbed, 
repressed,  but  irresistible — like  yourself  I" 

She  still  strove,  weakly  enough,  and  merely  by 
instinct,  to  fend  him  off. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  25 

"A  young  lady  In  a  book  would  be  offended  by 
that  speech.'* 

"Oh,  yes,  and  in  life,  too.  But  you  are  not — a 
young  lady." 

He  emphasised  the  odious  words  heavily. 

"How  do  you  know?'* 

He  shook  his  head  angrily.  His  sudden  lapses 
into  silence  gave  her  a  feeling  of  helplessness.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  do.  In  her  inexperience  she 
had  not  power  to  shape  the  situation,  and,  getting 
up,  she  announced  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  re- 
turn home.  They  walked  together  towards  Grant's 
Tomb,  which,  top-heavy  and  a  little  absurd,  yet 
shone  with  a  refreshing  whiteness  through  the  dusty 
foliage  of  the  trees.  Few  words  passed  between 
them.  They  were  aware  of  the  immense  attractive- 
ness they  had  for  each  other  and  made  effort  after 
futile  effort  to  get  at  each  other's  thoughts.  But 
their  natural  reserve,  and  the  very  tremour  of  pas- 
sion that  ran  through  them,  made  approach  doubly 
hard.  Climbing  a  few  steps  in  the  park,  he  touched 
her  thinly  clad  arm  and  dropped  his  own  as  though 
a  living  coal  had  seared  his  fingers.  He  was  not  a 
patient  man,  and  the  image  of  this  woman  had, 
somehow,  got  between  him  and  the  rest  of  the 
world.    But  he  hated  the  common  and  the  common- 


26  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

place  with  a  profound  and  irritable  hatred,  and  the 
obvious  words  were  excessively  hard  for  him  to 
utter.  They  came  at  last,  with  a  certain  fierceness, 
and  yet,  because  he  was  conscious  of  their  frequent 
facile  usage,  with  formality. 

"Frances,  I  love  you." 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"It  sounds  miserably  banal,  dear,  but  I've  been 
in  agony  these  past  weeks.  Have  you  thought  of 
me  at  all?" 

She  thought  the  poor,  despised  words  sweet  be- 
yond singing,  and  turned  to  him  her  deep,  grey 
eyes.  He  understood.  Then  suddenly  she  felt 
weak  again  and  dizzy,  and,  by  a  natural  impulse, 
leaned  upon  him.  He  took  her  to  a  little  bakery 
on  Amsterdam  Avenue  and  ordered  tea.  The  tea 
was  acrid  and  dark,  but  she  had  been  very  thirsty 
and  felt  better  after  drinking  it.  She  saw  fully  for 
the  first  time  his  smile,  which  was  bright  and  ten- 
der. With  entire  disregard  of  the  frowsy  girl  who 
waited  on  them,  he  covered  her  hand,  which  was 
resting  on  the  table,  with  his  own. 

"I  don't  believe,"  he  said,  "that  you'  even  know 
my  name." 

"I  saw  It  on  papa's  list." 

"Then  say  it  I" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  27 

»7ullan." 

The  word  sounded  infinitely  strange  to  her.  But 
at  Its  sound  the  barrier  of  reserve  and  convention 
between  them  seemed  to  melt.  She  found  herself, 
presently,  talking  to  him  with  a  new  vivacity,  of 
herself  and  her  life.  It  was  very  wonderful  to  be 
able  to  speak  of  these  Intimate  things  to  another 
who  understood. 

*'So  you  live  in  a  cage,'*  he  laughed.  "I  suspected 
it." 

"And  not  even  a  glass  one.  I  have  no  glimpses 
of  what  goes  on  outside." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"What  can  I  do?  I  suppose  Tm  needed  at 
home." 

He  frowned  at  this. 

"We  must  break  through  these  cramping  pieties. 
Believe  me,  we  help  no  one  by  losing  our  own  lives 
completely." 

"I  have  never  reasoned  it  out,"  she  said  slowly. 
"I  have  felt  the  constraint  and  the  misery,  oh,  so 
bitterly!  And  I  always  hoped  that  somehow  a  re- 
lease would  come — " 

"And  when  it  comes,"  he  broke  in,  "will  you  ac- 
cept it?" 


28  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know.  ..." 

They  went  down  Amsterdam  Avenue  several 
blocks,  then  through  Mornlngside  Park  towards 
One  Hundred  and  Twenty-second  Street,  and 
thence  to  Eighth  Avenue.  Here  the  rattle  of 
the  Elevated  Railroad  made  speech  impossible. 
Frances  stopped  abruptly  at  her  corner,  and  Julian, 
crushing  her  hands  In  his,  said: 

"You  will  hear  from  me  soon  I" 

She  just  managed,  with  nervous  haste,  to  slip 
into  the  house  In  time  for  dinner.     At  table  her 
mother  asked  querulously  where  she  had  been  all 
the  afternoon,  and  she  answered: 
""In  the  Park." 

Dr.  Garnett  saw  a  feverish  light  In  his  daugh- 
ter's e5'^es,  but  determined  not  to  harass  her  with  use- 
less questions.  Upon  all  three  fell  a  constrained 
silence  which  Frances  had  not  the  courage  to  break. 
By  her  answer  to  her  mother's  question,  made  In 
thoughtless  haste,  she  seemed  to  have  rendered  any 
reference  to  her  meeting  with  Ware  impossible. 
.  .  .  For,  had  she  spoken  of  It  now,  her  first  an- 
swer would  have  seemed  disingenuous.  Not  this 
alone  compelled  her  silence,  but  also  her  passionate 
yearning  to  keep  some  little  corner  of  her  life  her 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  29 

very  own,  secure  from  prying  and  remark.  The 
want  of  physical  privacy  under  which  she  had  suf- 
fered had  reacted  upon  her  whole  attitude.  She 
knew  that  her  mother,  given  the  chance,  would 
speculate  with  sordid  Intentions  upon  her  renewed 
acquaintance  with  Ware,  and  she  wanted  to  keep 
that  relation  Inviolate  and  inviolable. 

After  dinner  she  picked  up  an  anthology  of  mod- 
ern verse  and  turned  its  pages  listlessly.  Then  sud- 
denly, she  came  upon  two  lines  that  seemed  to  her 
graven  in  flaming  letters  upon  the  page  and  to  de- 
tach themselves,  soarlngly,  from  the  context : 

"But  surely  it  is  something  to  have  been 
The  best-beloved  for  a  little  while.   ..." 

All  the  pathos  and  beauty  of  life  seemed  to  her  to 
be  enshrined  forever  In  these  simple  words,  Its  su- 
preme glory,  which,  however  brief,  was  yet  worth 
dying  for.  Yes,  renunciation  would  not  be  difficult 
If  one  had  only  known  the  goodliest  things  for  a 
little  while.  But  to  renounce  without  having 
known,  to  be  huddled  away  into  the  oblivious  earth 
without  the  rapture  of  a  single  day  I  She  saw  her- 
self, with  morbid  clearness  of  vision,  lying  in  a 
bare  coffin,  and  heard  some  pitiful  stranger  (for  no 


30  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

one  of  her  own  blood  would  be  by)  saying:  *'No 
man  kissed  these  lips  when  they  were  red,  or  this 
bosom  when  it  was  white.  ..."  She  closed  the 
book  before  her  and  went  to  bed  carrying  the  words 
and  their  message  securely  in  her  heart. 


Ill 


Frances  was  vaguely  troubled  by  the  deceit 
which  she  had  practised.  A  full  sense  of  all  the 
strange  happenings  that  might  come  of  it  did  not 
dawn  upon  her  till  a  much  later  period,  when  its 
sting  was  softened  by  a  clear  perception  of  the  fa- 
tality in  all  mortal  things.  She  made  out  an  ad- 
mirable case  for  her  action.  By  the  almost  invol- 
untary omission  of  a  few  words  she  had  preserved 
to  herself  part  of  her  life,  and  had  rendered  it  safe 
from  vulgarity  and  exposure.  And,  after  all,  it 
might  end  soon.  Then  the  dear  memory  (for  it 
would  be  wonderfully  dear)  would  at  least  be  all 
her  own.  If  it  were  to  end  soon  !  She  was  like  one 
suffocating  to  whom,  after  one  delicious  gasp,  air 
was  again  denied.  It  was  a  strange  reflection  to  her, 
especially  in  looking  back  afterwards  upon  these 
early  days,  that  she  hardly  asked  herself  whether 
she  loved  Julian  Ware ;  and  she  inferred  that  a  for- 
mal recognition  of  love  was  rarer  than  it  seemed. 
For  herself,  she  dwelt  upon  the  memory  of  that 

3' 


32  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

late  afternoon  when  they  had  spoken  together  in 
the  golden  dusk,  treasuring  his  words,  his  gestures, 
and  remembering,  with  a  swift  exaltation,  the  thrill 
of  his  touch.  He  seemed  always  near  her,  strange 
and  troubling:  she  gave  herself  to  mystical  delu- 
sions, believing  at  times  that  his  thoughts  haunted 
-her  with  a  palpable  reality.  .  .  . 

She  had  to  wait  four  interminable  days  before  a 
note  came  from  Ware.  By  a  bit  of  good  fortune 
she  secured  it  before  it  had  been  seen,  and  went  to 
her  room  to  read  it.  Its  wording  frightened  her: 
"I  want  to  see  you — I  cannot  tell  how  much — and 
I  shall  be — there,  at  the  same  hour.  But  I  do  not 
ask  you  to  come  P'  She  was  glad  that  her  mother 
never  prepared  a  formal  luncheon  at  home,  but  that 
each  of  them  ate  alone.  The  hours  thereafter 
dragged  wearily.  Once  or  twice  she  called  upon 
her  pride,  asking  herself  whether  she  should  go. 
But  she  divined  a  hidden  earnestness  of  purpose  in 
Ware*s  note.  Then,  too,  that  horrible  dizziness 
came  upon  her,  the  room  reeled,  and  she  was  glad 
enough  to  escape  into  the  spacious  world. 

She  saw  from  afar  his  sturdy  shoulders  and 
large,  expressive  head.  He  had  placed  his  hat  be- 
side him  on  the  bench  and  the  wind  was  lifting  his 
dark,  soft  hair  from  his  forehead.     His  smooth- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  33 

shaven  face  was  turned  away,  but  as  she  came 
nearer  she  saw  his  profile.  The  expression  was  tense 
and  severe;  the  line  that  ran  from  nose  to  mouth 
deeply  stamped.  It  was  almost  a  forbidding  sight, 
but  she  was  not  afraid.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
life  she  felt  as  though  she  were  coming  gladly 
home.  A  whirling  leaf  on  the  path  caught  his  eyes 
which  followed  it.  He  turned,  saw  her  and,  com- 
ing toward  her,  took  her  hand.  It  was  so  sweet  to 
be  with  him  that  she  laughed  a  little. 

*Tm  afraid  youVe  given  to  being  cross." 

"What  a  child  you  are,  what  a  child!" 

He  stroked  her  hand. 

"WeVe  doing  the  maddest  thing  on  earth,  abso- 
lutely the  maddest,  and  you  trill  like  a  lark." 

She  was  a  little  hurt  and  vexed. 

"Why  is  it  so  mad  ?  And  even  if  it  were,  should 
you  tell  me  so?" 

"I,  of  all  people,  should  tell  you.  If  I  had  the 
strength  and  the  courage — unfortunately,  I  have 
neither — I  would  send  you  straight  home.  There^s 
a  good  deal  of  love  in  the  world  that  is  safe  and 
quiet  and  smooth.  Safe  and  quiet  and  smooth  peo- 
ple feel  it.  But  I  tell  you  that  such  passion  as  ours 
tears  and  breaks.  We're  going  to  hurt  each  other 
— ^perhaps  to  death." 


34  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Something  in  her  flared  up  as  at  a  call  to  battle. 

*'Would  you  care  to  be  otherwise?" 

''God  forbid  I" 

In  every  nerve  she  felt  the  thrilling  resonance 
of  his  voice,  and  they  laughed  together  in  the  glad 
consciousness  of  their  fatal  strength. 

For  a  minute  he  looked  almost  boyish,  filled  with 
the  blithe  spirit  of  adventure. 

"How  long  do  you  dare  to  stay  out?" 

"Till  half-past  six." 

"That  doesn't  give  us  much  time.  But  we  can 
take  a  walk.  Do  you  know  what  a  fine,  romantic 
place  New  York  Is?  I  dare  say  not.  But  one 
should  never  tire  of  exploring  It.  It's  hideous  and 
lovely  by  turns,  but  always  new  and  surprising. 
Wait,  I'll  show  you — sweetheart,  sweetheart!" 

This  was  a  new  side  of  him,  delightful  to  her 
beyond  words.  She  lost  herself  in  the  gladness  of 
his  presence  and  protection.  They  walked  over 
to  Eighth  Avenue  and,  amid  the  grind  of  traffic, 
but  wrapt  far  above  the  hopeless  meanness  of  the 
way,  as  far  up  as  One  Hundred  and  Thirty-fourth 
Street.  Into  this  street  they  turned  eastward,  and 
Frances  saw  Julian's  eyes  sweep.  In  sombre  fascina- 
tion, the  shabby  flat-houses. 

"What  lives,  what  passions,  what  miseries  must 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  35 

abide  here!"  he  said.  "Think  of  all  the  drab  little 
rooms  and  the  men  and  women  sitting  or  walking 
there,  dreaming,  yearning,  toiling  1" 

He  had  taken  her  arm  and  pressed  it.  Their  feet 
kept  step  rhythmically  and  his  imaginative  inter- 
est in  this  apparently  so  barren  scene  communicated 
itself  to  her.  Presently  they  emerged  from  the 
press  of  houses  and  stood  upon  the  hideous  Madi- 
son Avenue  Bridge  that  here  spans  the  winding 
Harlem  River.  A  film  of  cloud  had  swept  over 
the  sky,  no  breath  of  wind  stirred,  and  they  stood 
looking  upon  the  grey  scene  about  them.  The 
wooden  barges  on  the  sullen  river  seemed  absolute- 
ly moveless,  the  wharves  and  scattered  houses  de- 
void of  life.  It  was  all  leaden,  sordid,  bare  of  any 
gleam  of  comeliness.  But  from  river  and  barge, 
from  muddy  street  and  the  creaking  bridge  on 
which  they  stood,  arose  a  subtle  spirit  of  melan- 
choly quietude.  They  seemed  to  have  entered  some 
void,  waste  gathering-place  of  the  shadows  of  life 
and  death.    Julian  whispered: 

"Do  you  not  feel  it?" 

She  answered  him  with  a  look. 

"IVe  stood  here,"  he  went  on,  "for  hours,  in 
just  such  weather.    And  there  the  barges  lay  and 


36  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

no  man  was  to  be  seen."  His  voice  grew  deeper. 
"A  river  of  forgetfulness." 

But  Frances  was  glad  because  she  understood 
him  so  thoroughly,  because  she  too  had  an  almost 
morbid  perception  of  the  atmosphere  of  such  scenes 
which  had  helped  to  shape  the  life  of  her  soul. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  came  upon  a  tangle 
of  unpaved  streets  on  which  stood  scattered  wooden 
houses,  gaunt  In  their  isolation.  Empty  building 
lots  filled  with  all  manner  of  refuse  formed  the 
intervening  spaces.  But  across  these  were  vistas  to 
distant  woods  and  waters,  to  barren  fields — all  still 
and  empty  of  life.  Suddenly  Julian  stretched  out 
his  hand,  and  Frances,  following  its  direction  with 
her  eyes,  saw,  standing  alone  upon  a  little  hill,  an 
oddly  built  and  painted  house  which  seemed  to  have 
been  carried  here  bodily  from  some  immemorial 
German  farm-stead.  Its  conformation,  its  thatched 
roof,  its  blinking,  leaded  panes — all  had  an  air  of 
ancient  peace  and  long  habitation,  as  If,  like  its  far 
prototypes,  it  had  almost  grown  out  of  the  storied 
earth  on  which  It  stood.  And  over  It  wheeled  cir- 
cle within  circle  of  white  pigeons. 

"The  place  Is  quite  deserted,"  said  Julian.  "IVe 
been  here  often  before.  No  one  in  the  neighbour- 
hood could  tell  me  who  built  it,  since  It  was  here 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  37 

before  the  streets  were  laid  out,  and  all  the  present 
inhabitants  of  Mott  Haven  found  it,  picturesque 
and  empty,  as  it  is.  Some  of  the  window-panes  are 
broken,  so  that  it  has  become  a  vast  pigeon  house 
and  the  birds  have  increased  enormously. 

"I  shall  remember  it,"  Frances  almost  whispered. 

"So  shall  I,  dear,"  he  returned,  "doubly  now. 
And  in  the  days  to  come  when  we  have  grown 
weary  of  each  other — I  shall  come  here  and 
dream.'* 

"You  do  not  mean  that." 

He  stripped  the  glove  from  her  hand  and  kissed 
its  warm  palm,  and  each  slim  finger,  long  and  close. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  wish  I  and  all  things 
were  different." 

"Why?" 

He  did  not  answer  her,  but,  pulling  out  his  watch, 
said  that  It  was  time  to  start  on  the  way  back,  since 
she  must  be  at  home  at  a  certain  hour.  He  seemed 
all  at  once  sad  and  dispirited.  A  wave  of  pity  and 
love  rolled  over  her  and  she  could  have  covered  his 
tired  eyes  with  kisses. 

"Let  me  stay  with  you  longer.  It  doesn't  mat- 
ter." 

He  drew  away  from  her  perceptibly. 

"Won't  the  consequences  be  awkward?" 


38  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  bear  them." 

He  looked  at  her  rather  oddly,  she  thought,  and 
for  a  minute  she  was  frightened.  Then  his  reas- 
suring smile  made  his  face  luminous  again. 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  what  the  consequences 
are.  But  you  are  dear  and  good.  We  must  risk  it. 
Shall  we  dine  somewhere?" 

"Why  not?" 

She  loved  him  and  she  was  reckless.  She  could 
not  bear  to  let  him  go.  The  thought  had  come 
to  her  with  a  quivering  pang  that  she  knew  noth- 
ing of  his  life  and  could  form  no  idea  of  whither  he 
would  go  after  leaving  her.  And  she  wanted  him. 
He  must  not,  should  not,  go,  and  be  at  ease  in  the 
company  of  other  men,  or,  perhaps,  even  women, 
while  she  sat  at  home  and  ate  her  heart  out. 

"Julian,  you  do  not  wish  to  get  rid  of  me?" 

"No,  dearest;  it  was  for  your  sake  that  I  warned 
you." 

But  his  voice  seemed  to  her  lacking  in  warmth, 
and  during  their  ride  back  on  the  underground  rail- 
road she  repeated  her  question  almost  In  terror.  He 
held  her  hand  firmly  In  his  and  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing her.  Then  they  fell  silent  and  Frances 
blushed  with  shame  at  her  absurd  importunity.  As 
a  rule  she  was  full  of  calm  reasonableness,  but  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  39 

experience  of  her  past  seemed  of  litde  avail  in  the 
mad  sweetness  and  terror  of  these  late  events.  She 
seemed  to  lose  her  faculty  of  sane  thoughtfulness, 
and  certain  nobler  Instincts,  too,  were  beginning 
to  desert  her.  Thus  she  thought  of  her  mother  and 
father  waiting  for  her  In  vain,  scarce  swallowing  a 
mouthful  of  dinner  In  their  anxiety,  but  pitifully 
trying  to  persuade  each  other  that  all  was  right. 
But  though  she  was  aware  of  the  pathos  of  the  vis- 
Ion  It  moved  her  little.  To  let  Julian  go  to  his  own 
dwelling  and  his  own  friends,  not  to  hear  his  voice 
or  feel  the  warmth  of  his  shoulder  against  hers — 
that  alone  seemed  impossible. 

They  left  the  railroad  at  the  high  station  of 
Manhattan  Street  and  walked  over  towards  One 
Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street.  The  dark  had 
come  and  the  street-lamps  were  flickering.  They 
said  little,  but  walked  close  together,  almost  hear- 
ing their  blood  run  and  their  pulses  beat.  As  they 
neared  the  more  crowded  thoroughfares  they  drew 
apart  with  a  sudden  consciousness  of  their  passion. 
At  the  corner  of  Eighth  Avenue  Julian  bought 
flowers  from  the  vociferous  boys  who  stood  there 
with  huge  hampers — violets  and  roses  and  lilies-of- 
the-valley — and  he  filled  Frances'  hands  with  them 
till  she  asked  him  to  desist,  saying  that  she  had  more 


40  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

now  than  she  could  carry.  In  the  dimly  lighted 
passage  that  leUds  into  the  West  End  restaurant  he 
buried  his  face  in  the  cool  roses  at  her  breast,  In  the 
red  roses  against  her  white  throat. 
"Frances,  Frances,  how  I  love  you  I" 
They  chose  a  table  In  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
pleasant,  roofless  hall,  and  Frances  placed  her 
flowers  on  It,  while  Julian  ordered  dinner.  The 
scent  of  the  flowers  rose  exquisitely  between  them. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place,  cool  and  clean, 
was  delicious  to  them.  Very  few  people  had  yet 
come  to  dine,  so  that  In  their  corner,  behind  a 
spreading  palm-tree,  they  experienced  a  new  and  In- 
toxicating sense  of  Intimacy.  A  low  tinkle  of 
glasses  and  crockery  came  from  an  apparently  ab- 
surd distance.  They  were  quite  alone  and,  looking 
up,  could  see  that  the  clouds  of  the  afternoon  were 
drifting  away  In  the  darkness  and  that  the  white 
stars  were  slowly  coming  out.  Frances  felt  a  new 
animation.  She  had  often  looked  enviously  Into 
such  pleasant  places  and  had  seen  men  and  women 
sitting  together  In  them.  It  was,  no  doubt,  a  very 
material  form  of  pleasure,  but  It  was  material  pleas- 
ure which.  In  the  terrible  barrenness  of  her  life,  she 
had  thirsted  after — something  of  the  bright  glitter 
of  the  world  and  its  mad  Intoxication.    Surely,  her 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  41 

life  had  been  unimaginably  grey  and  monotonous. 
She  was  only  clutching  her  most  elemental  rights. 
Something  of  her  content  shone  in  her  eyes,  showed 
upon  her  half-parted  lips,  rose  and  fell  in  the  mo- 
tion of  her  rounded  bosom.  She  heard  with  a  new 
ring  the  lyric  note  in  Julian's  voice  as  he  quoted : 

"Life  of  life,  thy  lips  enkindle 
With  their  love  the  breath  between  them.   ..." 

His  hand  was  over  hers  and  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her 
with  compelling  power. 

When,  presently,  they  began  to  dine,  the  tension 
was  relaxed,  and  during  the  meal  they  spoke  of 
music,  of  books,  and  discovered,  what  each  had  di- 
vined, that  their  tastes  were  in  satisfying  harmony, 
that  they  could  linger  together  over  many  identical 
lines  and  passages.  He  was  surprised  that  she 
knew  her  Gautier  and  Swinburne  without  feminine 
reticence  and  hesitation,  that  she  had  even  read 
some  very  modem  verse  and  prose  known  in 
America  to  a  mere  handful  of  people.  As  at  their 
first  meeting,  she  said,  laughing : 

"What  else  was  there  to  do?"  And  then  she 
added,  "Until  you  came.  .  .  ." 

With  a  pretty,  hesitating  pronunciation,  she  re- 
peated to  him  that  marvellous  rhythmic  chant  of 


42  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

Verlalne  in  which  all  that  is  sweet  in  life  and 
evanescent,  and  all  but  ineffable,,  is  told  with  im- 
mortal music: 

*'Le  souvenir  avec  le   crepuscule.    .    .    ." 

She  confessed  that  she  had  never  studied  Ger- 
man, and  he  insisted  energetically  that  she  must, 
and  spoke  of  Heine's  lyrics  with  a  fullness  of  knowl- 
edge and  delicacy  of  understanding  that  made  her 
very  happy.  It  was  delightful  to  feel  that  he  ex- 
ceeded her  in  learning  and  insight,  that  she  could 
look  up  to  him  and  be  taught.  She  smiled  to  her- 
self at  this  intensely  feminine  satisfaction,  but  she 
was  not  ashamed  of  it. 

They  lingered  a  short  while  over  their  coffee, 
Julian  smoking  numerous  cigarettes  and  inhaling 
the  smoke  with  avidity.  The  slender,  gold-tipped 
cylinders  pleased  her  and  she  thought  his  way  of 
smoking  at  once  graceful  and  manly.  When  they 
left  the  restaurant  they  found  on  One  Hundred  and 
Twenty-fifth  Street  a  dense  and  steady  stream  of 
people  in  the  hot,  clear  night.  They  hastened  east- 
ward to  Seventh  Avenue  and  walked  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Central  Park. 

Entering  the  park,  they  followed  a  sinuous  path, 
crossed  the  rustic  bridge  over  the  Loch  and  were 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  43 

soon  lost  In  deep  thickets.  The  trees  were  still  in 
full  foliage,  though  the  leaves  hung  down,  wilted 
and  athlrst  In  the  narrower  paths  the  air  quivered 
with  heat  and  the  large,  lustrous  stars  seemed  to 
hang  aloft  In  a  palpitating  mist.  The  benches  were 
all  crowded,  and  the  men  and  women  upon  them, 
enervated  at  once  and  set  aflame  by  the  heat,  ex- 
pressed themselves  with  a  terrible  frankness  of 
passionate  sound  and  gesture.  They  hardly  heeded 
the  casual  passers-by.  Frances  felt  unutterably 
weary,  and  Julian  found  a  place  for  her  after  long 
searching,  upon  a  projection  of  living  rock.  All 
was  silent  about  them  save  for  some  low  cry,  now 
and  then,  from  a  neighbouring  thicket.  They 
leaned  toward  each  other  and  Julianas  arms  was 
about  her.  She  was  In  a  delicious  languor,  as  If 
she  had  died  to  all  things  but  his  presence  and  his 
love.  He  kissed  her  hands,  her  arms,  her  throat. 
She  turned  her  head  away,  and  he  bent  close  and 
kissed  her  hair  and  the  tawny  nape  of  her  neck 
above  her  low-cut  dress,  his  hand  following  the  soft 
curve  of  her  shoulder.  Then  abruptly  he  asked  her 
to  turn  around.  She  looked  at  him  and  saw  that 
he  was  very  pale. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "it  is  late." 

"Is  it?" 


44  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  had  lost  consciousness  of  time  and  of  her- 
self and  of  her  whole  past.  With  sudden  amaze- 
ment the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  must  go 
home,  that  her  father  and  mother  were  probably 
watching  for  her  or  had  started  a  search.  Terror 
gripped  her  and  Julian  could  hardly  keep  step  with 
her  as  she  walked.  He  was  very  quiet  and  strange- 
ly humble ;  she  could  not  tell  why. 

"Are  you  very  angry?"  he  asked. 
'     "No,  no;  but  I  had  forgotten — everything." 

At  the  door  of  her  house  she  turned  to  him  as 
if  for  protection. 

"Come  soon,  soon.  .  .  ." 

He  walked  away  sadly. 

She  ran  upstairs,  and,  with  overwhelming  relief, 
saw  no  light  glimmer  through  the  outer  door  of  the 
flat.  Touching  the  door,  she  found  it  unlatched, 
and  slipped  into  the  darkness  and  silence.  As  she 
passed  through  the  little  hall  she  heard  her  father 
deeply  breathing  as  he  slept.  Had  no  one  been  sur- 
prised at  her  absence?  Had  no  one  cared?  And 
the  peace  that  reigned  here  smote  upon  her  with  a 
deeper  terror  than  grief  or  anger  could  have  done. 


IV 


The  night  was  a  fearful  one  to  Frances.  Her 
restless  sleep  was  broken  by  monstrous  dreams, 
evil  faces  leered  at  her,  and  the  forms  of  her 
mother  and  father  assumed  the  terror  of  avenging 
angels.  She  had  to  get  up  many  times  to  dry  the 
perspiration  upon  all  her  limbs.  And  then  she 
would  fall  anew  Into  a  light  sleep  and  be  tossed 
about  by  fevered  dreams.  When  the  strange  light 
of  dawn  filtered  Into  the  dreary  air-shaft  she  grew 
suddenly  cold  In  anticipation  of  the  coming  day. 
She  sat  down  by  the  window  in  her  loose  night- 
gown and  agonised  for  a  moment — If  but  a  mo- 
ment— ^^of  calm  consideration  In  which  to  smooth 
out  the  horrible  confusion  in  her  brain.  If  she 
thought  of  Julian  at  all,  It  was  with  a  distinct  feel- 
ing of  repulsion.  She  only  knew  that  she  was  In 
some  frightful  danger,  that  she  was  afraid  of  the 
heart-slckening  scenes  of  explanation  and  reproach 
that  would  follow,  as  an  animal  Is  afraid  of  the 
lash.     She  had  once  seen  a  little  dog  cringe,  with 

45 


46  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

trembling  flesh  and  the  anguish  of  extreme  terror 
in  its  eyes,  under  a  dressing-table.  She  knew  now 
what  had  racked  the  animal's  nature.  Worse 
than  all  else  would  be  the  wretched  futility  of 
making  a  scene  with  her,  for  she  was  beyond  such 
help  as  her  father  or  her  mother  could  give.  She 
could  not  return  to  the  unrelieved  drab  of  other 
days,  which  seemed  In  retrospect  of  unimaginable 
hideousness:  she  must  fight  her  fight  alone.  De- 
spite her  terror  and  a  grim  physical  wretchedness, 
there  was  no  real  blindness  In  the  girl's  soul.  She 
knew  that  her  brief  repulsion  to  Julian  would  fade 
and  that  she  would  not  resist  the  inevitable.  Her 
Inexperience  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  specu>- 
late  upon  the  future.  That  was  dark.  But  the  In- 
sistent cry  of  her  troubled  heart  was  that  she 
wanted  to  be  left  alone — alone,  since  no  one  in  all 
the  world  could  give  her  help  and  comfort. 

When  she  was  dressing  she  saw  the  dead  pale- 
ness of  her  face  In  the  mirror.  She  was  not  given 
to  weeping,  but  the  sight,  somehow,  brought  tears 
which  burned  her  eyelids.  She  tried  hard  to  com- 
pose herself,  and  then,  with  final  resolution,  slipped 
Into  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Garnett  was  facing  the  win- 
dow, and  Frances  came  up  behind  her. 

"Mamma.  .  .  ." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  47 

Mrs.  Garnett's  voice  was  curiously  cold. 

"Your  father  sent  a  telegram  yesterday  to  tell 
us  that  he  would  be  detained  down-town.  He  came 
in  about  ten  and  I  told  him  you  were  In  your  room. 
I  lied  for  you." 

"Why?" 

Mrs.  Garnett  turned  around  slowly. 

"You  don't  know  your  father." 

Frances  was  thoroughly  confused. 

"I  know  it  was — unusual  for  me  to  stay  out  late, 
but  papa  would  have  been  kind." 

"Hush!" 

Dr.  Garnett  came  from  his  room.  He  asked 
whether  breakfast  was  ready,  saying  that  he  needed 
to  be  off  as  soon  as  practicable.  Then  the  three 
gathered  around  the  table  and  Dr.  Garnett  spoke 
of  a  faculty  meeting  that  he  had  attended  the  pre- 
vious evening.    He  looked  sharply  at  Frances. 

"You  look  pale,  child." 

His  voice  was  very  kind,  and  Frances  felt  like 
crying. 

"I'm  not  very  well,  papa." 

"I  think  it  Is  merely  the  heat,"  he  said.  "It  has 
been  very  trying.     Keep  as  still  as  possible." 

He  kissed  her  and  her  mother,  lit  a  cigar  and 
hurried  off. 


48  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Frances  felt  a  tightening  in  her  throat.  The 
punishment  was  at  hand.  She  saw  a  gleam  of  un- 
usual intelligence  in  her  mother's  eyes. 

"I  think  I  know  what  kept  you  out,  Fanny,  and 
it's  hard  to  have  a  new  anxiety  added  to  all  I  bear. 
^Do  you  know  what's  going  to  be  the  end  of  this? 
Just  shame  and  misery,  shame  and  misery  I  But  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  turned  out  of  the  house,  and 
men  can  be  so  hard,  so  hard!" 

"Papa  would  never  desert  me,"  Frances  pro- 
tested. 

Mrs.  Garnett  broke  down.  The  difficult  tears  of 
age  rolled  grotesquely  down  her  shrivelled  cheeks. 

"Hasn't  your  father  kept  us  in  poverty  and  dirt 
all  these  years  on  account  of  what  he  calls  his  con- 
victions? Don't  you  know  that  he  might  be  rich 
and  well  known  to-day  but  for  his  stubborn  ideas? 
He  has  sacrificed  us  to  them,  and  he  thinks  we 
ought  to  bear  it  all  without  complaining.  He  is 
hard,  hard!" 

"I  have  never  found  him  so." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  telling  you  what  is  untrue?" 

"No,  mamma,  no." 

"When  we  were  first  married  I  used  to  complain 
of  many  things,  because,  you  see,  we  were  even 
poorer  then  than  now.    He  would  not  listen  to  me. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  49 

He  used  to  say:  *We  don't  need  to  be  respectable, 
only  self-respecting.'  That's  a  man's  Idea !"  Her 
voice  rose  in  shrill  contempt.  "So  I  stopped  talk- 
ing and  Vm  a  miserable  drudge  in  my  old  age.  I 
was  as  pretty  and  as  fresh-looking  as  you  are.  He 
never  noticed  how  my  face  got  wrinkled ;  he  never 
cared  whether  my  hands  were  burned  at  the  stove 
or  callous  with  sweeping.  He  remained  true  to 
his  convictions.  Oh,  my  God,  how  I  hate  that 
word  I  I  tell  you,  men  have  no  pity,  no  regard  for 
others,  and  if  he  thought  that  you  had  wantonly 
dishonoured  yourself  and  him,  he  would  turn  you 
out  into  the  street!" 

She  laid  her  grey  head  upon  the  table  in  an 
agony  of  bitter  sobs.  Her  whole  being  had  been 
set  on  worldly  splendour;  she  had  no  other  inter- 
ests, no  other  hopes,  and  she  had  married  an  eccen- 
tric man  of  science,  whose  every  thought  and  ambl^ 
tion  thwarted  hers.  Frances  put  her  arms  over 
the  shaking  shoulders  and  the  two  women  wept 
together  over  the  pitilessness  of  life. 

"Dear  mamma,  I  promise  you  I'll  take  care  of 
myself.    Don't  cry  so,  dear,  don't  cry." 

Mrs.  Garnett  got  up.  She  had  dried  her  tears 
with  a  corner  of  her  apron  and  started  towards  the 


50  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

kitchen.  At  the  door  of  the  room  she  turned  back 
and  looked  upon  Frances,  not  without  tenderness. 

"Believe  me,  Fanny,  it's  useless  to  struggle.  I 
have  no  time  to  think  things  out  and  Fm  not  clever, 
I  suppose,  but  life  is  stronger  than  we  are — al- 
ways." 

Frances  went  about  wiping  dust  from  the  fur- 
nishings. They  looked  so  forlorn  in  their  shabbi- 
ness  that  it  seemed  almost  merciful  to  let  the  grey 
film  be  their  covering.  This  thought,  she  knew, 
would  never  have  occurred  to  her  mother,  who 
wandered  continually  from  room  to  room,  drawing 
her  finger  over  wood  or  plush  to  see  whether  a  dust- 
mark  would  remain.  At  first  the  girl's  movements 
were  of  nervous  energy  and  eager  haste;  but  when 
she  came  to  the  window-sill,  and,  leaning  out,  saw 
the  tall  poplars  on  Morningside  Heights  tremble 
and  sway  in  the  wind,  the  dust-cloth  fell  from  her 
hand,  she  slipped  down  on  her  knees  and  rested  her 
forehead  against  the  wooden  ledge.  Beyond  those 
fragile,  swaying  trees,  under  that  blue  sky  which 
seemed  to  grow  wan  and  far  above  the  crowded 
city  streets,  beyond  those  airy  heights,  there  flowed 
the  broad,  fair  river,  there  the  breezes  blew  light 
and  fine,  there  she  had  known  a  dear  and  imper- 
ishable hour.    It  was  over,  of  course,  as  she  might 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  51 

have  known.  What  gracious  thing  had  ever  come 
into  her  life?  A  hot  regret  burned  in  her  heart,  a 
fierce  and  indomitable  Will  to  Live.  She  recog- 
nised the  violence  of  her  emotions  and  tried  to 
pray.  But  no  sense  of  peace  entered  her  soul, 
rather  a  stern  and  forbidding  vision.  She  thought 
of  the  Saviour,  not  in  His  human  and  appealing 
guise,  walking  with  poor  and  simple  folk  upon  the 
Galilean  hills,  but  as  she  had  seen  Him  pictured  in 
some  ancient  German  wood-cut,  pallid,  emaciated, 
crowned  with  thorns,  but  in  His  eyes  a  se- 
verity born  of  other  worlds,  upon  His  lips  a  cry  of 
woe  upon  the  sins  of  earth  and  the  flesh  and  a  com- 
mand to  renounce,  to  abandon,  to  follow  over  dark, 
unhuman  paths  into  a  sunless  realm  of  peace !  To 
Frances'  fevered  mind  the  vision  was  real  and  al- 
most palpable.  Revolt  surged  up  in  her.  She  did 
not  want  to  renounce,  to  die  unto  the  world,  but 
to  live,  to  enjoy,  to  love.  Into  her  heart  floated 
the  luring  sweetness  of  those  lines : 

"But  surely  it  is  something  to  have  been 
The  best-beloved  for  a  little  while  .   .   .** 

and  the  tension  of  her  nerves  relaxed.  She  wanted 
to  lie  down  in  tall,  cool  grasses,  under  a  sunny  sky, 


52  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

to  be  kissed  and  crooned  over  and  to  wreathe  the 
poppled  flowers  of  the  field  In  her  hair. 

She  had  kneeled  by  the  window  so  long  that  her 
knees  began  to  ache  violently.  She  became  aware 
of  the  pain,  little  by  little,  and  got  up  lamely.  The 
fervour  had  left  her.  There  was  nothing  to  do, 
nothing  to  hope.  Hour  crept  after  weary  hour  in 
barren  desolation.  She  tried  to  read,  but  books 
seemed  faint  and  inadequate  after  the  poignant  liv- 
ing of  the  last  few  weeks.  No  words  could  ever 
render  for  her  again  the  extreme  sweetness  of  love 
or  the  full  bitterness  of  life.  At  last  the  day  faded 
into  evening  and  evening  into  night.  Dr.  Garnett 
was  once  more  detained  down-town,  and  Frances 
went  early  to  bed. 

Towards  noon  of  the  next  day  she  saw  Ware 
slowly  pacing  before  the  house.  The  sight  of  him 
was  like  an  imperious  call — irresistibly  strong.  She 
put  on  her  hat  with  such  trembling  fingers  that  the 
long  bodkin  pierced  her  skin.  But  she  scarcely  felt 
the  pain,  and  was  downstairs  and  beside  him  in  a 
moment.    He  seemed  gloomy  and  ill  at  ease. 

"I  was  debating,"  he  said,  ^'whether  to  come  to 
you." 

"You  should  not  come  unless  you  care — really." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  53 

"Oh,  I  care.  God  only  knows  how  much.  But 
what  is  to  be  the  end  of  all  this?    I  cannot  ever — " 

She  interrupted  him  with  energy. 

"If  you  knew,  if  you  only  knew  how  it  sickens 
me  to  hear  this  constant  weighing  of  consequences. 
So  far  as  I  can  see,  everything  in  life  leads  to 
wretchedness  at  last.  We  might  as  well  take  the 
good  things  that  come  to  us  without  so  much  anx- 
iety.   TheyVe  few  enough !" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  looking  at  her. 

"Have  you  loved  any  man  before  me?" 

"Never." 

"And  how  old  are  you?" 

"Twenty-four." 

"Good  heavens,  child;  where  did  you  learn  that 
wretchedness  is  the  end  of  all  things?" 

"At  home,  I  suppose." 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  bosom  with  a  plain- 
tive gesture. 

"I'm  so  tired,  Julian,  so  tired — ^not  physically,  I 
mean,  but  at  heart.  Take  me  with  you  for  a  little 
while.  But  I  must  be  home  in  time  for  dinner. 
Promise  me  that  you'll  let  me  go." 

"I  promise,"  he  said  gravely. 

They  passed  on  their  way  many  bright  and  pol- 
ished  shop-windows,   and  Frances   found  herself 


54  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

frankly  delighted  with  the  neat  wares  displayed. 
There  was  no  shadow  of  desire  In  the  pleasure  she 
could  take  In  such  things.  She  thought  that  she  had 
not  been  so  simply  happy  for  a  long  time.  It  was 
surely  quite  Innocent,  she  told  herself,  to  take  a 
walk  with  Julian  In  the  clear  day-light,  and  her  life 
was  so  empty  of  pleasures  that  It  would  be  a  mere 
sullenness  of  asceticism  to  deny  herself  this  one. 
She  laughed  and  talked  gaily  beyond  her  wont,  and 
crunched  with  her  small,  white  teeth  the  confec- 
tions that  Julian  bought  her.  But  he  would  not 
share  her  blltheness,  and  at  last  she  grew  discour- 
aged. 

"What  Is  It— dear?" 

She  used  the  word  for  the  first  time  with  tremu- 
lous reluctance. 

"Nothing,  nothing,  after  all.  ^Gather  ye  rose- 
buds while  ye  may.'  " 

But  long  before  It  was  necessary  he  turned  back, 
and  Frances  tortured  herself  with  self-questionings. 
Had  she  struck  some  discordant  note  In  their  rela- 
tion? Had  she  done  some  subtle  outrage  to  his 
mood  ?  During  the  long  hours  It  came  to  her  grad- 
ually how  she  had  centred  her  life  upon  him  and 
the  knowledge  made  her  afraid.  A  storm  of  rain 
rattled  against  her  window  and  she  was  appalled  at 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  SS 

the  prospect  of  a  long,  lonely  day,  during  which 
her  nerves  would  twitch  in  horrible  pain  at  every 
ring  of  the  door-bell.  She  was  powerless  to  act 
and  must  await  his  coming  and  his  mood;  she  was 
entering  upon  her  heritage,  the  heritage  of  all 
women,  as  literally  now  as  in  the  folds  of  the  pri- 
maeval hills — ^waiting  and  sorrow.  It  was  most 
piteous  to  her  to  think  of  the  weary  eyelids,  the 
fevered  hands,  the  impassioned  hearts  of  all  her 
innumerable  sisters  who,  in  the  endless  ages,  had 
wept  and  waited. 

Morning  came,  however,  with  a  clean-washed 
sky  and  a  red  splendour  of  autumnal  sunshine.  The 
air  was  cool  and  clear  and  luminous,  the  very  streets 
seemed  transfigured  out  of  their  sordid  homeliness, 
and  Frances  felt  her  mood  change  suddenly.  On 
so  golden  a  day  some  delightful  thing  must  surely 
come  to  pass ;  it  was  incredible  that  the  world  should 
hold  no  bit  of  happiness  for  her,  who,  after  all, 
asked  for  so  little!  Nor  was  she  disappointed. 
Julian  met  her  early.  He  seemed  to  have  cast  from 
him  some  heavy  burden,  to  have  deliberately  turned 
his  face  to  the  light. 

Upon  this  day  and  those  which  immediately  fol- 
lowed they  were  like  two  happy  children.  They 
wandered  through  streets  that  seemed  to  theni  of 


S6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

a  delicious  qualntness ;  they  came  suddenly  upon  lit- 
tle views  of  field  or  wood  or  river  that  enchanted 
them  with  unexpected  loveliness,  and  so  seemed,  in 
some  sweet  and  intimate  way,  to  become  their  own. 
Then  they  would  drink  tea  in  obscure  and  shabby 
little  baker-shops,  and  each  of  those  places  became 
to  them  a  home  of  romance  and  a  haunting-place 
of  dreams.  It  was  a  time  to  them,  not  of  rapture, 
but  of  contentment.  They  tasted  of  the  lighter  and 
more  delicate  poetry  of  love.  He  would  put  his 
arm  around  her  as  she  stood  leaning  over  some 
stone  parapet,  looking  down  upon  the  smiling  river, 
and  just  where  her  hair  ended  In  a  little  wilder- 
ness of  curls  kiss  her  warm,  white  neck.  And  then, 
to  punish  him,  she  would  drop  his  hat,  which  she 
held  in  her  hand,  upon  the  sloping  greensward  of 
the  river-bank.  They  were  like* two  children  whose 
play  was  touched  with  passion.  Fate  kept  her  cruel 
counsels  upon  these  delicious  afternoons;  and  they 
themselves  resolutely  turned  their  faces  from  the 
lurking  beasts  in  the  jungle  of  days  to  come. 

At  length  the  days  grew  chill  and  the  dark 
came  early.  It  was  no  longer  so  pleasant  to  wan- 
der aimlessly  through  street  and  park,  and  often 
sharp  showers  overtook  them.  The  choice  of  a 
suitable     shelter     became     increasingly     difficult. 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  57 

Julian  was  fond  of  lounging  In  restaurants  over 
black  coffee  and  cigarettes,  but  Frances  felt  some- 
thing that  weighed  heavily  upon  her  spirit  In  the 
large,  deserted  restaurant  halls  of  the  afternoon 
hours  with  a  single,  unkempt  waiter,  who  shuffled 
slowly  about  and  watched  them  with  sleepy  eyes. 
She  began  to  wonder  why,  after  all,  she  might  not 
ask  Julian  to  visit  her  In  her  home,  but  since  he  did 
not  suggest  such  an  action  her  natural  reserve  would 
not  permit  her  to  speak  of  It.  They  drifted  about 
somewhat  uneasily,  until  one  afternoon  Julian  an- 
nounced that  they  were  going  to  an  early  vaude- 
ville performance.  Frances  hesitatingly  objected 
to  the  publicity  of  a  crowded  theatre,  but  he  as- 
sured her  that  they  would  be  nowhere  eise  more 
entirely  alone. 

The  theatre  was  dimly  lit  when  they  entered  and 
Frances  had  a  haunting  sense  of  the  morbidness  of 
shutting  oneself  In  with  artificial  light  when  the 
clear  day  shone  without.  Thus  the  whole  scene  as- 
sumed to  her  at  once  a  subtle  unreality.  A  close- 
packed  crowd  surrounded  them,  and  from  It  seemed 
to  pass  an  Infectious  quiver  of  restless  human 
nerves.  In  order  to  avoid  contact  with  a  short, 
red-haired  man  who  sat  at  her  left  she  had  to  press 
close  to  Julian,  so  that  they   felt  continually  the 


58  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

troubling  warmth  of  each  other's  bodies.  Julian 
bent  down  suddenly  as  If  in  search  of  something 
and  she  felt  his  lips  burnlngly  upon  her  wrist. 
When  he  raised  his  head  the  performance  began. 
So  imperious  had  grown  the  excitement  of  her 
senses  that  Frances  saw  the  performers  on  the  stage 
through  a  dreamy  film.  She  seemed  to  herself  to 
have  passed  Into  a  strange  phantasmagoria 
whence  all  life  was  excluded  except  the  desires  of 
the  body.  Before  her  eyes  flashed  the  white  arms 
and  bosoms  of  the  actresses.  And  every  allusion  In 
song  or  monologue  seemed  to  dwell  with  an  In- 
sistence, which  at  last  became  cruel,  upon  passionate 
allurements.  She  felt  hot  and  wretched  and 
ashamed.  She  wanted  to  tear  herself  loose  from 
all  that,  to  escape  Into  the  fresh  and  strengthening 
air. 

"Julian,  Fm — ill.    Please  take  me  away." 

He  led  her  out  and  she  saw  with  a  great  relief 
the  light  of  day  at  the  far  end  of  the  entrance  pas- 
sage. 

*'It  was  rather  a  bore,  wasn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"It  was  dreadful!" 

"Hardly  that,  dear;  only  quite  ordinary  and  ab- 
surd." 

She  told  him  that  she  preferred  to  go  home  at 


:  THE    BROKEN   SNARE  59 

once  and  rest  and  he  consented  wearily.  There  was 
really  no  place  for  them  to  go  and  they  parted  al- 
most coldly  at  her  door. 

When  Frances  went  upstairs,  nearly  two  hours 
earlier  than  usual,  she  found  her  mother  at  ther 
drawing-room  window,  wringing  her  hands  in  a  dis- 
tress that  seemed  not  entirely  sincere,  but  theatrical 
and  calculated. 

"Why  doesn't  he  ever  come  upstairs?" 

Frances,  taken  unawares,  flushed  hotly. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Has  he  asked  you  to  marry  him?" 

"Mamma !" 

"So  he  hasn't  I    Well,  well,  what  then—?" 

Mrs.  Garnett  laid  her  heavy  hands  on  Frances' 
shoulders. 

"What  then?"  she  cried. 

Frances  regarded  her  mother  calmly. 

"I  warned  you,  but  you  went  straight  on.  Now 
youVe  thrown  yourself  away  on  the  first  comer, 
and  what  will  it  lead  to  ?  Do  you  know  where  such 
doings  end  ?  In  the  streets — in  the  streets !  Oh, 
my  God,  my  God  I" 

"Not  that,  mamma,  not  that!" 

A  heavy  silence  fell  upon  the  room.  Only  from 
time  to  time  resounded  Mrs.  Garnett's  desperate 


6o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

sobs  which  she  seemed  to  tear  from  the  roots  of  her 
being  with  conscious  violence.  Frances'  throat 
seemed  to  burn  like  living  fire.  It  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  would  never  be  able  to  speak  again.  Her 
mother  had  brought  before  her  with  vivid  brutality 
the  thoughts  that  she  had  put  from  her  day  after 
day  in  order  to  secure  for  her  soul  a  brief,  if  merci- 
less, happiness.  At  last  the  silence  grew  so  omi- 
nous, the  obscurity  so  deep,  pierced  only  by  a  faint 
yellow  glare  from  a  street-lamp  far  below,  that 
Frances  could  endure  the  tension  no  longer. 

"Mamma,  mamma,  I  swear  to  you,  you  are 
wrong  r* 

Mrs.  Gamett  rose  from  the  sofa  on  which  she 
had  thrown  herself. 

"See  that  he  marries  you^ — and  soon  I  Other- 
wise— " 

She  spread  out  her  hands  with  a  last  despairing 
gesture  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


Mrs.  Garnett  carefully  concealed  from  her 
husband  the  attitude  of  almost  Intolerable  con- 
straint in  which  she  and  her  daughter  lived.  The 
two  women  moved  silently  about  the  flat,  involun- 
tarily spying  upon  each  other,  and  passionately 
eager  to  detect,  mood  by  mood,  each  other's 
thoughts  and  emotions.  In  Dr.  Garnett's  presence, 
at  meals  and  during  the  few  hours  after  dinner, 
they  played  for  his  benefit,  and  by  a  silent  compact, 
a  sufficiently  adroit  game  of  unbroken  intimacy. 
His  coming  was  more  than  ever  a  relief  to  Frances. 
During  the  long  periods  of  his  absence  she  felt  as 
if  invisible  fetters  of  dragging  weight  hung  upon 
all  her  limbs.  Mrs.  Garnett  seemed  to  watch  her 
so  closely  that  her  most  natural  moods  became  con- 
strained and  awkward  in  their  expression.  She 
strove  to  make  her  very  breathing  inaudible.  It 
was  not  that  she  was  lacking  in  courage,  but  her 
deep-seated  social  instinct  taught  her  how  really  in- 
defensible her  position  would  be  thought,  and  how 

6i 


62  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

near  she  had  actually  been,  at  least  once,  to  that  ir- 
revocable catastrophe  which  her  mother  had  feared. 

But  she  had  hours  of  maddening  intellectual  con- 
fusion, when  all  clarity  of  thought  seemed  to  slip 
from  her,  when  It  was  not  even  necessary,  as  In  the 
days  before,  definitely  to  repulse  a  tendency  to 
weigh  consequences — hours  in  which  her  soul  and 
her  body  cried  out  in  agony  after  a  new  life,  and 
all  that  she  had  been  taught  as  right  and  honourable 
became  to  her,  beyond  measure,  mean  and  repulsive. 
She  no  longer  felt  the  welghtiness  of  that  inexorable 
maxim  of  bourgeois  poverty,  that  when  a  woman 
has  lost  her  chastity  she  has  lost  her  whole  life, 
since  she  can  retrieve  herself  neither  by  a  bold  Inde- 
pendence of  revolt  nor  by  a  marriage  with  another 
man.  These  convictions  that  had  impregnated  the 
very  air  she  breathed  became  unreal  and  mere  bar- 
ren words.  In  the  storm  of  her  desires  for  love, 
for  light,  for  freedom — rectitude  and  piety,  as  she 
had  known  them,  floated  afar,  phantasmal  delu- 
sions, into  the  distance  of  dreams. 

Out  of  this  wrack  rose  luminous  moments  In 
which  she  felt  that  a  great  change  had  been 
wrought  in  her  since  she  had  known  Ware.  Deeply 
as  she  had  suffered  before  under  the  repressions  of 
her  life,   she  had  rarely   doubted  that  these   re- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  63 

pressions  were  practised  In  the  service  of  an  essen- 
tial righteousness.  She  had  rebelled  against  a  thou- 
sand details  of  her  life,  against  fate  for  placing  her 
amid  such  sordid  and  unhappy  conditions.  But 
she  had  tacitly  accepted  the  laws  of  that  life  as 
binding.  Ware  had  awakened  In  her  all  elemental 
needs — all  that  Is  crushed  by  reckless  disregard  in 
middle-class  society — and  at  the  moment  when  she 
had  asked  her  father  whether  poverty  means  even 
the  denial  of  passion,  she  had  begun  to  look,  con- 
sciously and  tacitly,  upon  that  as  good  which  in 
her  class  and  station  was  the  supreme  evil. 

Gradually,  under  the  Influence  of  this  recognition 
of  her  changed  attitude,  the  confusion  of  her  mind 
passed  away.  The  whole  process  was  rapid,  since  it 
was  merely  a  crystaHisatlon,  under  the  stress  of  a 
sudden  recoil,  of  the  fluid  emotions  of  the  past 
weeks.  She  now  felt  with  Impassioned  anger  the 
wrong  that  life  had  done  her  and  more  and  more 
the  troubling  constraint  that  had  oppressed  her  In 
her  mother's  presence.  Her  mother  had,  to  be 
sure,  been  almost  violently  solicitous  that  she  should 
have  decent  apparel,  that  the  dentist  should  look 
after  her  teeth.  But  the  very  bread  of  life,  without 
which  existence  was  a  blunder  and  a  shame — this 
was  denied  her,  except  under  a  set  of  highly  arti- 


64  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

ficial  and  not  always  attainable  conditions.  She 
could  have  laughed  In  contempt  of  her  past  self,  so 
blind  had  been  her  desires,  so  unfortified  by  her 
new  sense  of  their  sanity  and  justice.  Nevertheless, 
she  intended  that  Julian  should  marry  her,  and  at 
the  thought  of  his  deep-rooted  detestation  of  mar- 
riage as  an  institution  her  heart  ached  sharply. 
For  a  refusal  on  his  part  to  marry  her  seemed  to 
her  a  complete  denial  of  the  love  he  professed. 
Not  for  conventional  reasons  did  she  cling  to  the 
traditional  form  of  union.  No;  but  were  his  love 
real,  must  he  not  desire,  above  all  things,  to  bind 
her  to  him  by  all  the  most  irrevocable  vows,  must 
he  not  fear  otherwise  to  lose  her?  Thus  she  Im- 
puted to  him  her  own  feminine  conception  of  love. 
She  desired  ardently  to  possess  and  to  be  possessed 
— wholly  and  forever. 

For  more  than  ten  days  she  had  not  seen  him. 
First  she  had  feared  her  mother's  embittered 
violence,  and  after  that  a  deep  sense  had  restrained 
her  that  her  struggle  must  be  over  before  she  could 
see  him  again,  deeply  as  she  yearned  for  his  sight 
and  touch ;  that  she  must  wait  until  she  had  wrought 
from  the  turmoil  of  her  soul  some  abiding  clarity. 
She  could  not  quite  account  for  this  to  herself,  nor 
for  her  reticence  In  the  notes  which,  at  his  request. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  65 

she  wrote  him.  His  own  letters  were  ardent  and  beau- 
tiful, but  often  ended  with  a  harsh  discord.  And  she 
connected  these  discords  with  that  rough  change 
of  temper  which  she  had  noted  in  him,  those  sudden 
outbursts  of  what  was  almost  discourtesy,  and  for 
the  sake  of  which,  strangely  enough,  she  loved  him 
the  more  dearly.  Her  soul  loved  him  because  he 
was  often  depressed ;  even  when  he  was  violent  and 
harsh.  She  never  resented  these  things,  but  in  her 
inviolable  womanliness  was  exquisitely  sorry  for 
him. 

At  last  she  could  bear  this  separation  no  longer. 
She  determined,  however,  with  childlike  joy  and, 
for  the  time,  complete  unconsciousness  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  such  a  step,  to  surprise  him  by  visiting  him 
in  his  bachelor  apartment.  The  superficial  uncon- 
ventionality  of  the  step — for  this,  though  this 
alone,  she  recognised  clearly — made  it  seem,  in  her 
present  mood,  only  the  more  attractive.  She 
dressed  herself  carefully  in  a  close-fitting  blue  frock 
and  a  coquettish  little  hat  of  the  same  colour.  The 
heavy  strands  of  her  brown  hair  were  loosely 
knotted  at  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  liked  it  best 
so. 

She  had  not  a  far  distance  to  go,  but  the  way  be- 
came strangely  difficult.    It  seemed  to  her  that  all 


66  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

eyes  must  be  upon  her,  and  that  the  very  loungers 
before  the  corner  barrooms  on  Eighth  Avenue 
laughed  without  mirth  In  suspicion  of  her  unconven- 
tional errand.  She  tried  to  fortify  herself  against 
such  folly ;  but,  little  by  little,  something  of  her  first 
adventurous  gladness  passed  away  and  she  walked 
the  last  block  almost  in  fear. 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  and  in  a  voice 
hardly  audible  that  she  requested  the  pert  mulatto 
in  the  entrance  hall  to  telephone  upstairs  and  find 
out  whether  Mr.  Ware  was  at  home.  The  answer 
came  that  he  was,  and  she  was  carried  up  in  the  lift 
so  rapidly  that,  for  a  moment,  all  things  swam  be- 
fore her  eyes. 

Julian  met  her  on  the  landing.  He  looked  at 
once  grave  and  troubled.  He  took  her  into  his  lit- 
tle drawing-room,  furnished  and  decorated  in  rich 
tones  of  golden  brown  and  lined  with  book-shelves 
to  the  ceiling.  She  held  up  her  face  to  him  timidly, 
but  he  seemed  not  to  notice  it  Then  he  turned  to 
her  almost  savagely. 

"Frances,  why  did  you  come  here?" 

"To  surprise  you.  I  thought  you  would  be  glad 
— ^yes,  glad  to  see  me." 

Her  voice  was  plaintive,  but  it  seemed  not  to 
touch  him.    His  own  was  cold  and  monotonous. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  '67 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "whether  to  think  of 
you  as  very  subtle  or  quite  unsophisticated.  Let 
me  explain,  however.  You  are  what  the  news- 
papers would  call  a  young  lady  of  unblemished 
reputation.  By  coming  here  you  compromise  your- 
self very  definitely.  But  that  Is  not  all — you  com- 
promise yourself  for  my  sake." 

Frances  grasped  clearly,  for  a  moment,  the  mon- 
strous accusation  of  his  words.  Then  the  room  be- 
gan to  wheel  around  and  she  fell  Into  a  chair.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  felt  her  senses  adjusting  them- 
selves again.  She  saw  Julian  walk  up  and  down 
before  her. 

"I  am  quite  conscious  of  the  fact,"  he  continued, 
''that  what  I  say  sounds  Inexcusably  caddish.  But 
society  pushes  off  the  whole  ethical  responsibility 
upon  me.  It  can  be  assumed  by  me  only  If  I  marry 
you.  Hence  your  coming  here  resolves  itself  into  a 
conscious  or  unconscious  attempt  to  force  me  to 
marry  you.  And  I  cannot  render  my  love  for  you 
official  and  Philistine ;  I  cannot  enter  upon  a  round 
of  hideous  and  vulgar  domesticities,  and  I  cannot 
and  will  not  perjure  my  soul  with  that  monstrous 
and  Impossible  oath  to  love  you  forever.  I  love 
you  now :  whether  I  will  love  you  in  ten  years'  time 
I  do  not  know.    No  man  can  know  of  such  things, 


68  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

and  no  woman,  either.  Half  the  misery  in  the 
world  springs  from  this  contemptible  folly  of  think- 
ing that  the  finest  and  most  evanescent  emotions  are 
as  definite  and  unchanging  as  a  cobbler's  last." 

He  stopped  In  his  walk  and  looked  upon  her. 
She  was  leaning  back  In  the  chair,  her  head  slightly 
lifted.  Her  face  was  pale  and  blue  rings  had  gath- 
ered under  her  eyes.  Her  beautiful  hands  lay 
wearily  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair.  Julian  came  to 
her  and  knelt  down  beside  her. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "I  wish  I  were  different — for 
your  sake.  But  this  thing  is  stronger  than  I.  It 
has  grown  with  my  growth;  it  has  strengthened 
with  my  strength.  I  have  seen.  .  .  ."  He  held 
his  hand  before  his  eyes  as  If  to  shut  out  the  vis- 
ible world  and  concentrate  his  soul  upon  visions 
within.  Then  he  spoke  again  in  a  voice  that  was 
dry  and  even — a  voice  of  colourless  monotony,  con- 
scious of  the  fact  that  no  emphasis  would  be  ade- 
quate to  mark  the  intensity  of  the  emotions  in- 
volved. "I  have  never  told  you  about  my  father. 
He  was  a  good  man — gentle  and  strong  and  wise, 
a  fine  and  distinct  individuality.  My  own  mother 
died  early,  and  to  him  I  owe  all  I  am,  all  I  shall 
ever  be  that  is  of  good  report.  In  his  quiet,  re- 
strained way  he  cared  deeply  for  the  best  things  in 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  69 

life  and  in  literature  and  he  taught  me  to  care.  We 
lived  in  comparative  loneliness — apparently — ^but 
we  had  with  us  in  constant  companionship  the 
voices  of  the  enduring  dead."  He  arose  and 
walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  There  he 
stood,  facing  her,  and  went  on.  "When  I  was  six- 
teen my  father  married  again.  Just  how  it  came 
about  I  hardly  know.  We  couldn't  talk  intimately — 
he  and  I — afterward.  The  woman  was  handsome, 
adroit  from  the  world's  point  of  view — even,  God 
help  me,  good-natured.  They  came  back  from  a 
brief  wedding-journey  and  she  began  ...  to  set 
the  house  in  order.  The  thing  came  upon  my 
father  unexpectedly,  dazing  him  for  a  while.  Then 
he  arose  in  wrath  and  resisted  .  .  .  with  his  whole 
soul  .  .  .  with  every  nerve  1  But  her  legal  rights 
were  established ;  she  was  in  possession.  The  woman 
declared  our  modest  income  beggarly;  she  wanted 
to  put  my  father  in  harness.  She  broke  in  upon 
his  quiet  hours  of  work  and  brooding ;  she  laughed 
at  his  scholarly  repute.  In  society,  in  his  presence, 
she  spoke  with  a  faint  smile:  *Bookwormsl  My 
dear,  don't  marry  a  bookworm.'  She  dragged  him 
to  routs  and  balls.  He  resisted,  I  have  told  you. 
How  did  that  help  him?  The  very  effort  to  resist 
jarred  his  senses,  destroyed  his  mood,  slew  the 


70  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

higher  faculties  of  his  soul.  He  had  no  redress — 
none.  Of  what  could  he  accuse  her?  His  wrongs 
were  of  a  subtlety  that  defied  words — such  words, 
above  all,  as  might  reach  the  coarse  ears  of  the 
law.  And  so  the  battle  went  on,  day  after  day, 
week  after  week,  year  after  year.  Gradually  his 
habits  were  broken,  his  friends  alienated,  his  work 
destroyed.  Gradually,  under  the  pressure  of  that 
intolerable  persistence,  he  became  old  and  had  hours 
of  weakness — ^weakness  so  utter  that  I  have  seen 
my  father,  whom  I  loved,  cower  .  .  .  cower  be- 
fore the  distant  sound  of  a  woman's  voice,  to  whom 
a  perverse  law  had  tacitly  given  the  right  to  rend,  to 
destroy,  to  crush.  He  had,  to  the  last,  his  moments 
of  strength,  when  he  fought  for  his  ideals,  for  his 
failing  work,  for  his  mode  of  life.  But  he  was  not 
meant  for  such  a  conflict.  It  killed  him.  And  the 
woman — the  woman  stood  beside  that  grave  in  her 
impenetrable  worldliness:  Toor  Mr.  Ware!  He 
Iwas  a  good  man,  but  so  impractical — so  unambi- 
tious!'" Julian  clenched  his  hands.  "She  had  the 
right ;  he  was  powerless.  But  I  swore  by  his  grave 
that  I  would  never  give  a  woman  that  right;  not 
the  best,  not  the  noblest.  If  ever  I  know  a  moment 
of  relenting  I  see  that  grave  and  I  remember  that 
hour  when  I  saw  my  dear  father — whom  I  knew 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  71 

in  his  vigour — shrink  with  fear  and  a  horror  of  re- 
pulsion in  his  eyes  at  the  coming  of  a  footfall  and 
the  sound  of  a  voice  I" 

Once  more  he  came  to  her,  took  her  cold  hands 
and  pressed  them  against  his  cheek  and  forehead. 
She  looked  at  him  and  saw  the  fire  of  those  evil 
memories  burning  in  his  eyes.  And  suddenly  she 
wondered  vaguely  what  her  own  father  would  have 
been  if  her  mother  had  added  to  desires  the 
strength  of  will  to  carry  them  into  action.  Yes, 
she  understood  what  he  felt.  But  should  not  his 
love  tell  him  that  she  was  different  .  .  .  different? 
Could  he  believe  evil  of  her?  The  bitterness  of 
this  thought  rang  in  her  speech. 

"And  should  you  grow  tired  of  me,  should  I  dis- 
appoint you,  as  I  might,  what  would  become  of 
me?" 

He  let  her  hands  go  abruptly.  An  angry  redness 
mounted  into  his  forehead. 

"Ah,  that  is  just  the  attitude  I  hate — the  ineradi- 
cable smallness  of  woman.  Are  we  not  in  precisely 
the  same  position  ?  Can  you  mortgage  your  very  soul 
any  more  than  I  ?  If  you  were  to  cease  to  love  me 
first,  though  it  broke  my  heart  and  ruined  my  life,. 
I  would  not  inflict  myself  upon  you.    I  would  leave 


72  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

you  free  to  be  happy.  But  no  woman  has  that  mag- 
nanimity!" 

She  flashed  out  for  the  first  time. 

"It  is  not  magnanimity;  it  is  heartlessness.  No 
woman  who  truly  loves  a  man  would  desert  him. 
She  would  sacrifice  herself  for  him  to  the  very  point 
of  death!" 

"But  if  he  has  ceased  to  love  her  he  does  not 
want  her  life — he  wants  his  own." 

"You  do  not  understand." 

"Only  too  well.  I  have  seen  it !  Your  love  is 
merciless,  your  fidelity  is  implacable  and  your  very 
unselfishness  enslaves !" 

She  arose  and  stood  before  him,  white  and  ap- 
parently calm. 

"I  am  not  concerned  that  you  should  marry  me 
for  conventional  reasons.  My  life  has  not  been 
very  happy,  and  I  might  have  borne  shame  and  dis- 
grace even — for  the  sake  of  love !  But  I  am  right; 
you  do  not  love  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  your  only  thought  seems  to  be  how — 
some  day — to  rid  yourself  of  me." 

"Frances,  you  are  utterly  unjust;  it  is  a  principle 
I  fight  for,  a  deep  conviction." 

She  seemed  to  hear  her  poor  mother's  broken 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  73 

voice :  "But  he  remained  true  to  his  convictions  1 
My  God,  how  I  hate  that  word!"  She  felt  as  if 
in  the  man  before  her  some  incomprehensible  and 
sinister  force  was  trying  tO'  crush  and  destroy  her. 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said;  "I  don't  under- 
stand." 

Then,  slowly,  she  arose  to  go.  He  came  nearer 
to  her  and  nearer,  and  she  let  him  put  his  arms 
about  her.  His  lips  sought  hers  and  she  could  not 
resist.    He  kissed  her  eyes,  her  forehead,  her  hair. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "you  cannot  go  from  me  in 
anger.  Can  you  not  trust  yourself  to  me  without 
understanding?'* 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No — if  only  you  loved  me;  if  only  you  loved 
me  .  .  .1  Now  all  my  struggle  has  been  for  noth- 
ing." 

"I  love  you,"  he  said  firmly,  "more  than  I  should 
have  thought  possible.  When  you  want  me  you 
shall  find  me  at  your  bidding." 

She  freed  herself  gently  from  his  grasp. 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  shook. 

They  went  into  the  hall  and  he  rang  the  electric 
bell  for  the  lift.  While  it  was  coming  up  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  saw  in  his  eyes  a  plea  for  forgive- 


74  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

ness,  but  she  was  dazed  and  worn  out  and  stepped 
into  the  iron  cage  without  a  word.  In  a  moment 
his  face  had  disappeared. 

The  immense  recuperative  power  of  her  youth 
abandoned  her  for  almost  the  first  time.  Hitherto 
every  disappointment  had  been  accompanied  by  an 
immediate  resurgence  of  the  brighter  forces  of  her 
soul,  by  a  swift  and  involuntary  struggle  to  read- 
just her  spiritual  vision  to  the  new  aspect  of  life 
and  draw  therefrom  a  better  consolation.  To-day, 
upon  the  windy,  autumnal  streets,  she  felt  only  the 
dull  ache  of  utter  defeat.  She  watched,  with  a 
strange  curiosity,  for  that  thin  flame  of  hope  to 
flicker,  swiftly  at  first  and  tremulously,  in  her 
heart.  All  within  her  was  dark  and  silent.  But 
her  physical  sight  seemed  suddenly  to  have  gained 
an  acuteness  that  was  akin  to  pain.  The  familiar 
details  of  the  street  scene  on  Eighth  Avenue  stood 
out  with  an  unnatural  clarity.  Gradually  one 
street-lamp  after  another  burst  through  the  gather- 
ing dusk,  and  with  an  instinctive  sense  of  the  pass- 
ing of  time  Frances  turned  Into  a  street  that  led 
to  Manhattan  Avenue.  She  passed  a  flaring  saloon 
in  the  corner  house  and,  through  the  half-open 
swing-door,  saw  a  woman  sitting  at  a  small  table. 
The  woman  was  dressed  in  a  stiff  gown  of  yellow 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  75 

silk ;  her  short,  crimped  hair  was  of  the  same  sharp, 
yellow  hue,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  Frances  of  the 
colour  and  hardness  of  amber.  The  sight  fasci- 
nated her.  It  was  of  an  evil  gorgeousness,  and  to 
stare  at  It  seemed  to  take  her  out'of  herself.  But 
the  woman  saw  her  and,  laughing,  came  to  the 
door.  Frances  fled  down  the  darker  street  with  a 
new  and  overwhelming  sense  of  her  strange  posi- 
tion. It  came  over  her  now  with  startling  clearness. 
She  had  given  up  for  the  sake  of  love  the  measure 
of  peace  that  had  made  her  old  life  endurable,  and 
had  given  It  up  in  vain. 

One  thing  was  certain:  she  could  not,  at  home, 
explain  the  real  state  of  affairs.  And  this  thought 
burned  and  hammered  In  her  brain :  he  did  not  love 
her.  Something  In  his  eyes,  something  In  his  touch, 
of  a  great  tenderness  for  her  and  a  deep  reverence 
— these  Impressions  were  graven  upon  her  mind. 
But  they  were,  to  her  way  of  thinking,  utterly  and 
shamefully  belied  by  his  words.  He  wanted  her 
for  a  little  while,  and  then  would  turn  from  her, 
and  her  face  burned  with  shame  at  the  thought. 
No;  she  could  not  explain.  And  since  no  possible 
explanation  could  convey  the  precise  aspect  of  the 
truth,  she  reasoned  that  an  utterly  false  one  would 
really  not  be  half  so  Immoral.    She  tried,  with  f  ev- 


76  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

erish  anxiety,  to  frame  a  story,  but  failed.  She 
could  hardly  loiter  before  the  door  to  think  of  a 
plausible  way  by  which  to  cover  all  the  facts  of 
her  behaviour.    And  so  she  went  slowly  upstairs. 

Mrs.  Garnett,  as  was  usual  at  this  hour,  pottered 
about  the  kitchen.  Frances^  with  a  sudden  reckless 
inspiration,  called  to  her  mother.  At  all  costs  she 
must  guard  against  questioning  and  discussion. 

"Mamma,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Ware  asked  me  to 
marry  him  this  afternoon — and  I  refused." 

Mrs.  Garnett's  face  became  a  crumpled  mask  of 
horror  and  surprise. 

"Oh,  you  fool!"  she  cried.     "You  fool!" 

"I  don*t  believe,"  Frances  continued,  "that  he 
really  loves  me.  And  I  am  quite  sure  now  that  I 
do  not  love  him.  We  shall  not  see  each  other 
again." 

Mrs.  Garnett  sat  down  and  wrapped  her  apron 
over  her  wet  hands. 

"Very  well,"  she  said  wearily.  "You  might  have 
been  rich  and  happy.  Mr.  Ware  is  a  gentleman 
and  a  man  of  means.  You  will  regret  your  foolish 
sentimentality  to  the  last  day  of  your  life.  But 
IVe  got  to  go  back  and  get  your  father's  dinner." 

Frances  went  Into  her  room  and  sat  down.  It 
hurt  her  fearfully  now  that  she  had  lied  so  directly 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  77 

and  unblushingly.  But  what  could  she  have  done  ? 
A  sense  came  to  her  of  the  stark  poverty  of  the 
means  of  human  communication,  of  the  clumsiness 
and  hardness  of  words.  By  what  possible  combi- 
nation of  them  could  she  have  told  her  mother  the 
truth — Julian's  apparent  love  and  his  strange  re- 
fusal to  marry  her,  and,  stranger  than  all,  his  rea- 
sons for  his  refusal  ?  She  wept  softly  at  last,  pity- 
ing herself  that  she  had  not  a  single  friend,  no  soul 
so  close  to  her  own  that  she  could  really  speak. 
God  seemed  terribly  far  away  and  unreal,  and,  as 
often  before,  she  thought  with  a  warming  of  the 
heart  of  the  veiled  confessionals  that  she  had  seen 
in  Catholic  churches.  But  to  her  all  sources  of  con- 
solation were  mercilessly  closed. 


VI 


September  mornings  came  In  with  thick,  milky 
mists.  Then  winds  arose  and  swept  the  mists  sea- 
ward and  the  wistful  sweetness  of  Autumn  hovered 
over  the  city.  The  soft  grey  of  the  sky  was  heavy 
with  rain  that  rarely  fell.  From  Mornlngside 
Park  the  children,  the  visitants  of  summer,  had  dis- 
appeared, and  standing  alone  here  upon  some  climb- 
ing path  of  the  hillside,  Frances  felt  swathed  in 
elemental  silence.  Sometimes  she  would  sit  on  a 
bench  and  by  her  absolute  quiescence  lure  the  shy, 
grey  squirrels  from  their  dripping  coverts.  She 
watched  their  bright,  black  eyes  and  trembling  lit- 
tle snouts  as  they  ventured  nearer  and  nearer,  com- 
ing, for  a  moment  scarce  perceptible,  to  sniff  deli- 
cately her  boot  or  skirt.  One  little  fellow,  bolder 
than  the  others,  would  perch,  for  some  delicious 
seconds,  on  her  shoulder,  and  brush  her  ear  and 
neck  with  his  soft  fur.  After  that  she  brought  bags 
of  delectable  peanuts  for  her  pets,  and  it  was  a 
strange  enough  sight:  the  pale,  red-lipped  girl,  her 

7» 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  79 

brown  hair  sparkling  with  tiny,  gemlike  drops  of 
moisture,  alone  in  the  autumnal  woodland,  and 
about  her  the  troops  of  darting  squirrels.  She 
loved  this  retreat,  for  it  became  to  her  a  bourne  of 
forgetfulness.  Here  she  could  sit  for  hours  and 
let  her  thoughts  wave  indolently  about  simple  and 
natural  things  and  not  a  sight  or  sound  of  the  diffi- 
cult world  come  to  mar  her  peace.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Garnett,  secure  of  the  girl's  truthfulness, 
did  not  interfere  with  her  walks  In  the  near  park. 
But  the  hours  consumed  by  these  were,  after  all, 
few,  and  the  mornings  and  evenings  seemed  often 
intolerably  long.  With  a  deep  sense  of  the  Im- 
mense futility  of  life,  Frances  listlessly  abandoned 
her  music  and  her  former  studies.  At  times,  In- 
deed, she  almost  hated  the  arts,  for  were  they  not 
clamourous  of  life?  The  splendour  of  passion,  the 
rapture  of  wine,  the  adventurousness  of  dim  sails 
over  the  rim  of  the  revolving  earth — ^what  had  she 
to  do  with  these?  She  pondered  over  the  exceed- 
ing strangeness  of  the  fate  by  which  she  had  lost 
her  hold  upon  the  bright  realities  of  life,  but  she 
could  not  unravel  the  inextricable  strands.  Being 
a  woman,  and  of  little  worldly  experience,  she  could 
not  divine  the  nature  of  the  motive  that  drove 
Julian  to  words  and  acts  of  seeming  ruthlessness. 


8o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

What,  after  all,  could  she  know  of  that  passion  for 
independence,  that  fear,  rising  at  times  to  the  point 
of  madness,  that  a  woman  might  destroy  his  single- 
minded  devotion  to  the  ambitions  that  floated  be- 
fore him,  might  retard  the  fruits  of  his  slow  ma- 
turity? He  had  told  her,  often  enough,  of  how  he 
wore  his  heart  out  over  the  things  he  was  trying 
to  write,  and  she  had  listened  with  intelligent  in- 
terest. She  did  not  know  that  these  halting  at- 
tempts which  he  would  never  show  her  were  the 
Imperious  rivals  of  his  love.  She  brooded  over 
that  last  scene  with  him.  She  felt  the  genuineness 
of  his  convictions — their  genuineness;  against  their 
truth  she  rebelled.  But  in  solemn  hours  of  the 
night  she  confessed  to  her  soul  that  she  still  loved 
him,  and  that  nothing  could  cast  him  from  her 
heart. 

Her  father's  keen,  blue  eyes  would  often  dwell 
upon  her.  He  had  never  referred  to  their  one 
frank  discussion,  and  his  various  preoccupations 
made  dim  to  his  sight  the  conditions  of  his  own 
home.  But  she  was  pale  and  listless  and  he  was 
profoundly  concerned  for  her.  He  would  even  re- 
turn somewhat  earlier  In  the  evening  In  order  to  be 
with  her,  for  he  knew  that  his  wife  had  no  Intellec- 
tual resources.    But  Frances  often  found  it  difficult 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  8i 

to  respond  to  his  efforts.    Her  thoughts  were  with 
her  heart  and  that  was  far  away. 

At  last  one  evening  he  broke  the  essential  silence 
which  surged  over  and  beneath  all  their  superficial 
talk. 

"Frances,  I  believe  you  should  have  some  di- 
versions. I've  never  thought  of  it  until  recently, 
but  I  find  it  strange  that  you  have  no  friends  of 
your  own  sex  and  age." 

"Don't  you  really  know  why,  papa?" 

"How  should  I?" 

'Well,  you  and  mamma  denied  yourselves  many 
things  to  send  me  to  an  expensive  school,  and  all 
the  girls  I  knew  there  are  either  married  or  busy 
with  sport  and  society.  They  have  no  time  for  one 
who  does  not  and  cannot  share  their  interests." 

Dr.  Garnett  frowned  heavily. 

"You  know  we  acted  for  the  best,  my  child." 

"Of  course  I  know  it." 

A  shadow  passed  into  his  bright  blue  eyes.  Any 
defection  from  duty,  however  unconscious,  was  a 
terrible  thing  to  him. 

"If  only  our  income  were  a  little  larger,"  he 
said.  "But  it  is  too  late  in  the  day  to  consider  that. 
I  could  not  make  any  real  change  In  your  life  with- 


82  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

out  sacrificing  a  portion  of  my  life  insurance,  and 
that  is  out  of  the  question." 

"Quite,"  answered  Frances,  wearily. 

A  few  days  later  he  came  home  with  an  unusual 
eagerness  in  his  manner. 

"Fanny,  I  was  introduced  to  Allendale,  the 
painter,  at  luncheon  to-day.  He  invited  me  to  his 
Wednesday  afternoon  receptions  and  I  told  him  I 
would  send  my  daughter  instead.  Do  go.  I  am  not 
sure  that  the  atmosphere  there  is  quite  desirable. 
But  you  are  old  enough  not  to  be  influenced.  You 
may  meet  some  Interesting  people.  And,  yes,  I 
wanted  to  ask  you:  did  Ware  ever  call?  I  quite 
lost  sight  of  him,  and  I  thought  at  one  time  he 
would  be  a  pleasant  friend  for  you." 

"He  never  called,  papa." 

She  was  overwhelmed  with  the  consciousness  of 
the  insinuated  lie.  And  her  father  was  so  eagerly, 
if  not  skilfully,  kind  and  thoughtful.  She  believed 
that,  at  this  moment,  she  might  confess  to  him.  If 
only  her  voice  would  not  tremble  so. 

"Papa—" 

"My  dear  child,  don't  tell  me  you're  not  going. 
Your  vitality  seems  low,  and  vigourous  contact 
with  people  will  be  the  best  thing  for  you.  You  need 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  83 

not  be  diffident.  Allendale's  functions  are  quite  In- 
formal, and  you  can  wear  a  street-suit." 

Frances  went  to  her  room  appalled  at  the  small 
perversities  of  fate.  .  .  . 

On  Wednesday  afternoon  Frances  set  out  upon 
her  quest.  It  was  distinctly  that;  since  Allendale 
lived  in  some  far,  green  corner  of  the  tangled 
Bronx.  She  did  not  promise  herself  any  extraordi- 
nary pleasure  from  the  afternoon,  for  It  seemed  to 
her  that  In  social  diversions,  as  In  nearly  all  things, 
there  must  be,  for  full  enjoyment,  an  element  of 
the  habitual.  This  excursion  was  to  her  an  event 
so  isolated  that  she  would  be.  In  comparison  to  the 
other  guests,  at  an  Immense,  though  not  easily  de- 
finable disadvantage.  She  would  know,  though 
no  one  else  might  suspect  It,  that  she  had  merely 
emerged,  for  the  briefest  space,  from  the  drab 
waste  of  her  life,  to  sink  again  at  once.  Was  it 
worth  while,  then,  to  have  a  fleeting  glance  at  a 
world,  perhaps  desirable,  from  which,  after  all, 
she  would  be  excluded  ?  Her  motive  In  going  was 
simply  not  to  render  quite  futile  her  father's  kindly 
efforts. 

Wearied  by  her  long  ride  in  the  underground 
railroad,  she  was  glad,  on  leaving  it  at  West  Farms, 
of  the  large  visible  stretch  of  sky  and  the  country- 


84  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

like  air  of  the  place.  She  discovered  presently  that 
a  tall,  old  mansion  of  wood,  devoid  of  paint,  but 
with  an  ample  portico,  was  Mr.  Allendale's.  The 
house  stood  alone  upon  a  little  hill  which  Frances 
ascended  by  way  of  a  foot-path  hardly  distinguish- 
able among  the  reeds  and  bushes.  There  was  no 
bell  at  the  door,  which  stood  open.  But  Frances, 
with  eyes  fresh  from  the  sun,  could  distinguish 
nothing  In  the  strangely  fragrant  gloom  within. 
Disheartened  by  sudden  diffidence,  she  thought  of 
going  away,  when,  apparently  from  nowhere,  came 
a  small,  fat,  blond  man  with  both  hands  stretched 
out  In  unctuous  greeting. 

"This  surely  Is  Miss  GarnettI  I  know  the 
faithful  who  gather  about  me,  and  you  are  not  one 
of  them.  Thus  I  recognised  you.  But  you  will  be 
of  us,  I  trust." 

He  was,  she  thought,  excessively  blond  and  fat, 
and  his  body  seemed  to  be  bloodless.  His  wide 
mouth  writhed  in  the  superabundant  fullness  of  his 
face.  He  took  her  hand  with  odious  familiarity 
and  led  her  within. 

All  the  Inner  partitions  of  the  house  had  been 
removed,  and  the  shell  had  become  one  large  hall. 
All  the  windows  were  thickly  draped,  and  the  con- 
sequent darkness  was  lit  only  by  tiny  crimson  lamps 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  85 

that  shed  a  flicker  from  deep  niches  In  the  wall. 
Where  the  red  light  fell,  long  divans  could  be 
faintly  discerned  and  wooden  stools  In  the  grotesque 
forms  of  fabled  monsters.  Long,  narrow  pictures 
stood  on  easels  near  a  few  of  the  lamps — ^portraits 
of  women  with  cruel  eyes,  voluptuous  lips  and  thin, 
wasted  breasts.  Wherever  one  turned,  smoulder- 
ing joss-sticks  sent  forth  delicate  spirals  of  pale  blue 
smoke  that  hung  with  sickening  heaviness  upon  the 
air.  And  amid  this  astonishing  farrago  of  Orien- 
talism and  decadence,  clinked.  If  one  approached 
them  too  nearly,  rusty  suits  of  armour,  helmets  and 
breast-plates.  Allendale  led  Frances  to  a  divan  and 
sat  down  beside  her.  When  he  spoke  he  attempted 
to  modulate  his  voice  to  a  soft.  Insistent  music  and 
his  enunciation  was  deliberate  to  the  point  of  gro- 
tesqueness. 

*'You  are  early,"  he  said;  "and  that  is  well.  I 
must  tell  you  that  so  soon  as  your  father  mentioned 
you,  I  was  conscious  of  a  mysterious  sympathy  be- 
tween us.  One  must  not  search  Into  these  Inscru- 
table phenomena,  but  dwell  In  them  with  faith." 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  seemed  not  to  notice 
her  silence. 

"This  house,  as  you  perceive,"  he  went  on,  "I 
have  transformed  Into  a  real  dwelling-place,  have 


86  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

shaped  It  to  the  needs  of  my  spirit.  I  am  so  glad, 
so  glad  you  have  come.  But  now  I  must  be  ready 
for  my  other  guests.    Will  you  come  with  me  ?'^ 

He  preceded  her  to  a  huge  screen,  turned  Its 
comer,  and  here  In  the  sudden  and  apparently  fierce 
Illumination  of  an  undraped  window,  Frances  saw 
a  small,  thin  woman  with  bright  red  hair.  She 
wore  a  gown  of  black  which  seemed  to  consist  al- 
most entirely  of  open-work,  so  that  the  woman's 
pale,  thin  arms  and  flat  bosom  were  horridly  visible. 
At  a  second  glance,  It  was  clear  that  she  was  the 
model  of  the  strangely  voluptuous  portraits  under 
the  crimson  lamps. 

"This,''  Allendale  murmured,  with  his  softest  In- 
tonation, "this  is  Miss  Bertram.  We  have  elected, 
for  a  space,  to  unite  our  lives.  Valeria,  this  Is  Miss 
Frances  Garnett." 

Although  her  thoughts  had  In  the  past  weeks 
dwelt  with  a  serious  liberality  upon  the  question  of 
marriage,  Frances  was  appalled  at  this  utter  frank- 
ness. She  was  not  sure  that  she  would  not  have 
called  It  shamelessness  and  have  been  proud  of  this 
conceivably  bourgeois  attitude.  She  was  entirely 
at  a  loss  for  words  at  this  moment. 

"Is  not  he  wonderful?"  Miss  Bertram  asked. 

"Who?" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  87 

"Allendale.    Is  not  he  very,  very  wonderful?" 

Frances  wanted  to  laugh,  but  she  looked  into 
green  eyes  so  solemn  that  she  refrained. 

"I  have  hardly  known  him  long  enough  to  de- 
cide," she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"He  Is  wonderful,"  repeated  the  woman  in 
black,  and  her  thin  bosom  laboured,  "but  also  ter- 
rible. Strange  things  have  gone  to  his  making, 
strange  things.  .  .  ." 

Beyond  the  screen  arose  a  hum  of  conversation, 
and  Miss  Bertram,  taking  Frances  by  the  arm  with 
her  claw-like  hand,  led  her  into  the  soft  darkness 
of  the  main  hall. 

About  thirty  people  seemed  to  have  gathered 
there,  and  as  Frances'  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  gloom  and  began  to  distinguish  individuals,  a 
shudder  passed  over  her.  It  may  have  been  the 
weird  and  faint  illumination,  it  may  have  been  be- 
cause some  of  the  women  had  thrown  about  them 
gaudy  Oriental  robes  picked  from  a  huge  heap  of 
drapery  upon  the  floor,  but  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  had  entered  an  Inferno,  where  dwelt  behind 
pallid  and  evil  faces  all  the  corroding  passions  of 
man.  Allendale  again  took  her  by  the  hand  and 
led  her  to  a  group  of  women.  One  of  them,  a 
deformed  dwarf,  who  had  on  a  gown  of  stiff  sky- 


88  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

blue  satin,  began  to  chatter  to  Frances.  It  appeared 
that  she  edited  a  sheet — evidently  rather  scandalous 
in  its  nature — and  wanted  to  know  whether  Frances 
practised  any  distinguishing  art  or  vice  that  would 
justify  a  notice.  Disappointed  in  this  hope,  she  hur- 
ried unceremoniously  away,  and  Frances  remained 
alone  upon  her  divan,  watching  this  motley  crew. 

All  vital  forces  seemed  suddenly  to  leave  her 
as,  to  her  vision.  Ware's  broad  figure  detached  it- 
self from  a  crowd  of  men  that  stood  before  one  of 
the  paintings.  Her  lids,  dry  and  hot,  burned  her 
eye-balls  as  she  looked  away.  Then,  as  swiftly  as 
the  sudden  weakness,  a  wave  of  gladness  and  tremu- 
lous love  rolled  over  her.  She  had  not  known  how 
much  she  loved  him,  how  inexorably  he  was  to  her 
the  one  centre  and  reason  of  life.  In  the  sudden 
joy  of  finding  him  so  unexpectedly  she  could  have 
gone  to  him,  there  before  all  those  hideous  crea- 
tures, and  put  her  arms  around  him. 

For  some  breathless  minutes  he  wandered  about 
with  a  faintly  ironical  smile.  The  smile  flickered 
out  abruptly  as  he  perceived  her. 

"May  I  sit  here?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

He  took  possession  of  her  at  once  in  the  strong 
way  she  loved. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  89 

"How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Papa  met  Mr.  Allendale,  and  so — " 

"And  are  you  enjoying  it?"  he  broke  in. 

"No;  there  is  something  repulsive  about  Mr. 
Allendale  and  his  house  and  his  guests — something 
that  chokes  and  smothers.  You  know  Miss 
Bertram?" 

"The  Corpse?" 

"Don't,"  she  protested. 

"That  IS  her  nickname.  Allendale,  whose  nam.e, 
by  the  way,  is  O'Hagan,  being  so  nastily  fat  him- 
self, has  a  lust  for  living  skeletons." 

She  blushed  a  little  at  his  drastic  expression. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  said,  "but,  in  regard  to 
these  people,  one  loses  one's  sweet  reasonableness." 

"Sweet  reasonableness  is  never  your  most  shining 
quality.  But  I  thought  you  had  rather  a  taste  for 
decadence?" 

"Decadence!  decadence!  Open  the  windows, 
throw  out  these  tawdry  rags,  and  you  have  left  a 
crowd  of  Philistines  with  all  their  common  and  dis- 
reputable vices;  true  freedom  of  action  does  not 
need  red  lamps  and  joss-sticks.  A  defiance  of  law 
that  Is  not  Ignoble  does  not  need  sickly  sentiment 
or  pinchbeck  mysticism." 

"Then  why  do  you  come  here?" 


90  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"I  go  about  a  good  deal  In  these  days,  no  matter 
where.  I  go  about — to  forget.  Fm  weary  for 
you,  sweetheart." 

"Truly?" 

"Really  and  truly,"  he  laughed. 

The  blue  smoke  of  the  joss-sticks  now  made  the 
atmosphere  stifling  and  the  monotonous  din  of  con- 
versation seemed  to  hurt  the  nerves. 

"If  I  stay  here  much  longer,"  said  Julian,  "I'll 
have  a  headache.  Won't  you  come  with  me? 
Won't  you?" 

The  dear  old  lyric  Intonation  soared  In  his  voice. 

"I'll  come  I" 

Allendale  was  slimlly  voluble  as  they  took  leave 
of  him.  He  regarded  them  with  a  sympathy  and 
approval  that  were  insulting. 

"Listen  to  me," said  Ware.  "I've  had  the  honour 
of  Miss  Gamett's  acquaintance  for  some  time.  She 
permits  me,  therefore,  to  accompany  her  on  the  way 
back.     Understand?" 

"But  thoroughly,  my  dear  Julian.  How  should 
I  not?" 

Julian  turned  Impatiently  away. 

"What's  the  use  of  being  annoyed  by  the  crea- 
ture?   Let's  go." 

They  did  not  realise  how  long  they  had  been  In 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  91 

the  house.  But  when  they  slipped  Into  the  open  It 
was  dark  and  the  sky  was  full  of  stars.  The  streets 
and  fields  about  them  were  very  still.  A  blithe  wind 
blew  under  the  stars,  and  Frances  breathed  freely 
once  more,  amid  these  sane  and  beautiful  and  last- 
ing things.  Julian  seemed  to  her,  at  this  moment, 
at  one  with  them  in  his  temper  and  influence.  He, 
too,  to  her,  was  strong  and  sane  and  comely.  In 
her  sensitive  reaction  against  the  dim  atmosphere, 
as  of  some  putrid  spiritual  marsh,  which  they  had 
just  left,  she  nestled  close  to  him.  But  the  monot- 
ony and  dull  repression  of  her  home,  occurring  viv- 
idly to  her,  were  almost  more  terrible  than  Mr. 
Allendale's  darkened  hot-house.  No;  Julian  was 
her  only  refuge.  Only  with  him  did  she  live,  only 
In  his  presence  was  life  worth  the  living.  Surely 
he  could  not  wrong  her,  and  perhaps — a  very  flame 
and  glory  of  hope  came  at  the  thought — perhaps 
he  would  change  his  views,  would  see  that  love  Is 
an  unending  good  without  limit  or  reserve,  Incapa- 
ble of  diminution  or  death !  She  would  teach  him 
— and  save  him  I  She  clung  to  him  unconsciously, 
with  an  almost  protecting  gesture. 

"Frances,"  he  said,  *'you  remember  our  last  con- 
versation?" 

"Yes." 


92  THE   BROKEN   SNARE 

"It  may  be  wrong,  but  I  must  appeal  to  you  once 
more.  I  love  you  with  all  my  strength,  with  every 
nerve,  with  every  fibre  of  my  body.  I  have  been 
living  in  the  acutest  misery,  and  yet — " 

He  halted. 

"And  yet  you  have  not  been  able  to  overcome 
your  repugnance  to  marriage,  to  conquer  a — 
memory?'* 

"Nol" 

"You  will  overcome  It." 

"Dearest," — he  took  her  hand, — "don't  trust  to 
such  a  change.  I  must  not,  can  not  let  you  do 
that!" 

"And  if  I  trust  in  spite  of  your  protest?  If  I 
have  more  faith  in  the  endurance  of  your  love  than 
you  have  yourself?" 

"It  isn't  a  risk,  dear.  It's  a  certainty.  I  can- 
not swear  impossible  and  absurd  oaths;  I  cannot 
set  up  a  Philistine  household.  I  cannot  enter  Into 
a  relation  vulgarised  and  officialised  by  the  greasy 
sentimentality  of  a  hundred  generations.  And  then 
— then-^there's  something  in  me  of  the  Wild,  the 
ancient  Wild.  I  can't  submit  to  any  bond.  I  can- 
not, cannot!" 

"But  if  you  love  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  do  love  you,  absolutely." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  93 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  there,  under 
the  waving  trees  and  white  stars.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  being  melted  into  his  as  it  had  done  afore- 
time, somewhere  in  the  illimitable  universe,  that  he 
was  her  mate,  her  protector,  her  salvation.  She 
leaned  toward  him  gradually,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
until  his  lips  met  her  forehead. 

"You  will  come?"  he  asked  softly. 

She  had  no  words  in  which  to  clothe  her  assent. 
Speech  would  have  been  too  coarse,  too  misrepre- 
sentative.  A  space  of  silence  passed  between  them. 
Then  she  spoke: 

''I  will  trust  you — you — !" 

They  agreed  that  he  would  write  to  her  when  he 
had  made  a  few  necessary  arrangements  and  ap- 
point a  time  and  place  of  meeting.  But  the  sudden 
momentous  decision  had  exhausted  her  and  she  lay 
back  in  the  train  in  a  half-dreamy  state.  He  kissed 
her  at  the  door  of  her  house,  and  in  his  eyes  was 
a  look  so  deeply  earnest,  so  full  of  a  grave  tender- 
ness, that  she  treasured  It  against  the  inevitable 
doubts  and  terrors  of  the  night. 


VII 


But  the  doubts  and  terrors  did  not  come.  Be- 
fore this  Imminent  crisis  she  was  sustained  by  an  In- 
flexible exaltation.  That  the  extreme  and  vision- 
ary sweetness  of  her  mood  was  due  to  an  alert  an- 
ticipation of  the  senses,  that  the  recklessness  of  im- 
memorial Instincts  possessed  her  wholly — this  ele- 
mental truth  she  would  have  beaten  off  if  it  had  oc- 
curred to  her.  In  the  brave  exhilaration  of  her  be- 
ing, hunger  and  thirst  were  consumed  In  the  white 
flame  of  an  appetite  still  more  Imperious.  She  was 
intensely  alive,  caressing  the  cool  pillow  with  her 
warm  palm  and  wrapping  the  sheet  of  her  bed  lux- 
uriously about  her.  The  coolness  of  her  bed,  the 
softness  of  her  skin,  the  silky  smoothness  of  her 
fhair — she  enjoyed  these  physical  sensations  with  the 
'keenness  of  childhood.  From  this  Immersion  In  a 
delicate  sensuousness  she  was  recalled  by  a  sharp 
knock  at  the  door  of  her  room.  Her  mother's 
voice,  raised  In  acid  Irony,  followed  the  knock. 

"Fanny,  did  you  have  a  pleasant  time?'* 

94 


THE    BROKEN  SNARE  95 

*Tes,  mamma,  very." 

*'DId  you  have  dinner?" 

*'No;  but  I'm  not  hungry — only  tired." 

She  heard  her  mother  pass  stealthily  along  the 
narrow  hall,  and  this  appearance  of  stealth, 
together  with  the  irony  of  her  voice,  frightened 
her.  It  brought  into  her  mind  the  one  seemingly 
unpardonable  element  of  the  situation — the  deceit 
toward  those  who  were,  after  all,  most  intimately 
dear  to  her,  and  to  whom  she  owed,  for  years  of 
unflagging,  if  not  the  wisest,  love,  an  unquestion- 
able loyalty.  The  fatality  which,  beginning  with  a 
single  rash  reticence,  had  entangled  her  in  a  woof 
of  lies,  insinuated  and  direct,  was  too  tragically 
common  to  reflect  upon.  And  surely  her  first  reti- 
cence, forced  upon  her  by  her  mother's  habit  of 
sordid  speculation  and  criticism,  had  not  been 
wrong.  That  an  action  so  innocent  had  been  in- 
evitably followed  by  the  ugliest  deceit  seemed  to 
Frances  a  luminous  example  of  that  complete  eth- 
ical uncertainty  which,  as  she  had  strongly  suspected 
for  many  weeks,  is  the  dominant  note  of  human 
conduct.  Driven  by  an  unconquerable  desire  of 
light  and  love,  she  had  made  a  first  fine  breach  in 
the  spiritual  wall  that  enclosed  her  life.  A  series 
of  events  which,  as  she  looked  back  upon  them, 


96  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

seemed,  by  their  very  maddening  subtlety,  beyond 
the  exercise  of  any  direction,  had  widened  the  breach 
until — to-morrow  or  the  day  after — the  whole 
structure  might  crash  with  ruin  to  the  earth !  And 
the  ultimate  cause  of  her  defiance  of  the  social  law, 
of  the  lies  that  were  hateful  to  her,  of  the  terrible 
pain  she  would  give  her  parents,  lay  not  in  any  de- 
liberate evil,  originated  by  her  will,  but  in  the  un- 
changeable necessities  of  her  being.  This  was  the 
more  clear  because  she  knew  that  she  would  not, 
ultimately,  draw  back  from  the  last  and  fatal  step. 
At  the  thought  of  giving  up  Julian,  of  returning  to 
the  meaningless  monotony  of  her  past,  a  terror  took 
possession  of  her  so  elemental  and  unreasonable  as 
might  grip  one  who,  being  led  to  death,  pleads  in 
unmanned  weakness,  impelled  by  no  cravenness  of 
spirit,  but  by  a  primal  instinct  stronger  than  him- 
self, for  life — life  upon  any  terms.  And  so,  star- 
ing wide-eyed  into  the  solemn  darkness,  she  came 
to  that  last  and  most  ancient  refuge  of  man — 
beaten  upon  by  the  unpitying  tides  of  conscience 
and  of  resistless  desires — an  accusation  of  Eternal 
Power. 

"Thine  hands  have  made  me  and  fashioned  me 
together  round  about,  yet  Thou  dost  destroy  me.** 

This  ardent  girl,  alone  with  the  mysteries  of  her 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  97 

life,  seemed  to  herself  to  stand,  for  one  awful  mo- 
ment, upon  a  promontory  jutting  out  into  the  black 
chaos  of  things,  whence  she  could  see  that  good  and 
evil  were  naught,  that  we  are  driven  by  desires  not 
of  our  own  devising,  by  needs  that,  if  denied,  will 
crush  faith  and  loyalty  and  honour.  And  she 
abandoned,  for  a  space,  that  wistful  communion 
with  God  which  so  often  In  past  years  had  helped 
her  to  endure  and  not  to  faint. 

Of  the  future  she  had  no  longer  any  fear.  A 
consciousness  of  power  seemed  to  have  arisen  in 
her,  the  recognition  of  something  daemonic  In  her 
personality.  Was  not  Julian  the  first  man  who  had 
really  had  a  chance  to  see  and  know  her,  and  had 
he  not,  by  his  own  confession,  surrendered  to  the 
compulsion  of  her  charm?  Ultimately,  if  she  de- 
sired it,  he  must  marry  her. 

She  arose,  lit  the  dim  jet  of  gas,  and  stood  be- 
fore the  mirror.  Her  heavy  hair  lay  darkly  in  thick 
folds  upon  her  white  night-gown;  her  grey  eyesy 
burned;  the  full,  red  lips  gleamed  strangely.  The| 
night-gown,  falling  open,  revealed  her  throat  and 
bosom  to  the  delicate  curvature  of  her  small,  cup- 
like breasts.  A  passion  of  pride  and  power  and 
the  glory  of  coming  days,  of  soaring  liberation 
from  the  constraints  of  the  past,  surged  up  in  her. 


98  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  was  free  to  live,  made  to  enjoy,  strong  to  con- 
quer! She  returned  to  bed,  but  could  not  sleep. 
Until  the  coming  of  the  gaunt,  grey  dawn  her 
pulses  hammered  and  she  could  not  close  her  eyes. 
Then  she  fell  at  last  into  a  dreamless  and  unbroken 
slumber. 

It  was  late  when  she  awoke — ^nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  She  was  dimly  surprised  that  she  had  not 
been  called.  But  no  misgiving  came  to  her.  The 
tense  exaltation  of  the  night  persisted  still.  She 
must  follow  her  call — the  call  of  life :  If  not  upon 
terms  of  which  society  approved,  then  upon  others 
which  she  had  justified  before  the  tribunal  of  her 
own  soul.  She  dressed  slowly  and  with  care.  It 
would  be  a  difficult  day,  perhaps  the  most  difficult 
she  had  ever  known.  But  she  meant  to  get  It  over 
without  flinching. 

A  ray  of  feeble  sunlight  hovered  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  ugly  furnishings,  standing  with  rigid 
precision,  should  have  quailed  under  it.  But  they 
seemed  to  Frances,  like  so  many  things  In  her  old 
life,  to  glory  in  the  shame  of  their  hideousness. 
What  struck  her  again  upon  this  fateful  day,  as 
so  often  before,  was  not  the  poverty  of  her  home. 
That  she  could  have  smiled  at  without  self-con- 
sciousness.    It  was  the  terrible  respectability,  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  99 

air  of  *'honest  poverty,"  contemptuous  of  all  grace 
and  loveliness  as  savouring  of  the  immoral,  that 
roused  in  her  a  fierce  repulsion.  But  all  that  was 
at  an  end  for  her.  She  would  look  upon  it  now 
with  calmness.  If  she  could  have  thought  of  her 
mother  with  a  pity  less  troubling  and  profound  she 
would  have  been  happy.  But  it  was,  at  least,  con- 
soling to  think  that  her  presence  had  added  nothing 
to  her  mother's  content.  She  would  have  been,  oh, 
so  willing  to  help,  but  she  had  steadily  refused  to 
be  a  party  to  that  mad  career  of  cleaning  and  scour- 
ing which  seemed  to  be  her  mother's  life.  One 
servant  after  another  had  lived  with  them  in  idle- 
ness, and  Frances  had  never  been  able  to  convince 
herself  that,  since  a  servant  was  kept,  she  should 
help  to  do  her  work.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Garnett  appeared, 
pale  and  dishevelled.  She  put  some  eggs  and  a 
cup  of  coffee  before  Frances. 

*'I  didn't  call  you  for  breakfast,  because  I  wanted 
to  see  you  alone." 

*'Yes,  mamma?" 

"Yes;  I  saw  what  happened  at  the  door  last 
night." 

"Julian  kissed  me." 

"Fanny,  have  you  no  shame?" 

The  spring  of  love  and  compassion  dried  up  in 


loo  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

the  girl's  heart  before  this  stupid  blundering  of 
abuse. 

"When  is  he  going  to  marry  you?'* 

Frances  made  no  reply. 

"So  this  is  what  youVe  come  to;  this  is  the  re- 
ward your  father  and  I  get  for  our  care,  for  our 
sacrifices :  that  you  have  become  this  man's  mistress. 
And  you  dare  to  sit  before  your  mother  without  a 
blush  on  your  face,  you — ^you — " 

"Hush,  mamma;  you'll  be  sorry.  You  don't 
mean  that." 

"Every  word  of  it,  every  word.  I  hope  to  God 
you'll  never  see  another  happy  day  in  your  life. 
But  I  know  you  won't." 

"No,"  said  Frances,  in  a  colourless  voice,  "not 
If  I  give  up  Julian." 

"You  have  no  shame,  no  decency,  no  honour." 

Mrs.  Garnett  rocked  to  and  fro,  her  hands 
wrapped  in  her  apron.  Frances,  cold  and  pale, 
pushed  the  plates  away  from  her. 

"If  you  could  give  me  any  reason  for  your 
prophecy,"  she  said,  "I  would  listen  gladly.  If  you 
were  to  tell  me  that  in  going  away  with  Julian  I 
would  be  offending  God  and  His  law — I  might  not 
agree  with  you,  but  I  would  understand.  You  say 
nothing  of  the  kind.    It  is  because  what  I  do  seems 


THE    BROKEN    SNAte  loi' 

to  you  not  respectable.  You  care  only  for  the  opin- 
ion of  people  whom  I  never  saw  and  who  shall  not 
be  my  judges.  What  do  they  know  of  me  or  my 
needs?  What  experience  have  you  had  In  such 
things?  You  do  not  even  care  for  my  happiness, 
but  only  for  a  miserable  fetish  of  propriety  before 
which  you  have  grovelled  all  your  life.  You  have 
not  been  wretched  because  we  were  poor,  but  be- 
cause, in  spite  of  our  poverty,  you  insisted  on  an 
apartment  In  an  expensive  neighbourhood,  on  a  sep- 
arate drawing-room  and  dining-room !  Why?  We 
had  no  friends,  no  visitors.  Because  it  is  respec- 
table to  have  things  so !  Why  didn't  we  live  a  few 
blocks  farther  east  and  have  a  little  more  money 
for  food  and  amusements?  Because  it  is  not  re- 
spectable !  And  do  you  think  that  I  will  order  my 
life  In  any  such  fashion  ?  No !  I  must  live,  experi- 
ence— be !    No  man  shall  judge  for  me." 

The  girl  stopped,  surprised  at  her  own  vehe- 
mence. It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  had  brooded 
over  this  arraignment,  silently,  for  years.  But  she 
spoke  to  a  mind  ossified  In  rigid  grooves — a  mind 
inflexible  and  dead,  which.  In  Its  misery,  hardly 
took  in  the  sense  of  her  words.  Mrs.  Gamett 
slowly  unwound  her  hands  from  her  apron-  of 
checked  homespun. 


102  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"And  the  way  youVe  lied — lied  to  your  father 
and  me!" 

Frances'  lips  grew  sullen  and  her  eyes  expres- 
sionless. What  was  there  to  say?  She  was,  by  na- 
ture, passionately  truthful — this  she  knew.  But 
for  the  communication  of  truth,  luminously  the 
thought  flashed  through  her  mind,  there  needs  not 
only  the  teller  but  the  competent  hearer.  In  her 
mother's  mind,  the  truth,  had  she  told  It,  would 
have  become  distorted,  at  every  stage.  Into  a  mon- 
strous slander,  an  Intolerable  He.  Mrs.  Garnett, 
oppressed  by  her  daughter's  silence,  began  to  cry 
softly. 

"Fanny,  I  don't  understand  you." 

"No,  mamma,  you  don't;  you  never  will." 

It  was  somewhat  brutally  said,  but  Frances,  who 
did  not  herself  cry  easily,  was  often  Irritated  by  her 
mother's  tears. 

The  older  woman's  anger  broke  out  anew. 

"Don't  flatter  yourself  that  I  don't  understand. 
It's  easy  enough.  I  know  what  you-  try  to  hide 
from  me;  I  know  you  fling  away  self-respect  and 
modesty.  But  I  won-'t  say  another  word  to  you. 
I'll  see  what  your  father  has  to  say." 

Mrs.  Garnett  went  back  Into  the  kitchen  and 
began  to  scrub  with  a  contemptuous  energy  that 


THE  BROKEN  SNARE  103 

seemed  to  scrape  upon  every  nerve  In  her  daugh- 
ter's body.  Frances,  hence,  took  refuge  In  her 
room,  and  sitting  there,  on  her  bed,  brooded, 
strangely  enough,  upon  the  Isolation  of  each  soul 
alone  as  the  separate  stars  in  their  tremendous 
orbits,  and  Incapable  of  any  message  that  should 
make  to  vibrate  harmoniously  answering  chords. 
With  Julian  she  could,  at  times,  communicate  free- 
ly, and  thus  with  him,  In  so  homeless  a  world,  was, 
after  all,  her  truest  home.  An  Immediate  choice 
had  been  forced  upon  her.  Their  meeting  had  been 
arranged  for  the  day  after  to-morrow.  But  the 
more  she  thought,  the  more  she  quailed  before  the 
futile  acerbatlon  of  a  scene  with  her  father.  He 
was  not,  she  profoundly  believed,  hard  or  Inflex- 
ible on  vital  matters,  as  her  mother  thought  him; 
and  yet  he,  too,  would  urge  her  to  an  Impossible  re- 
nunciation. She  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves,  drew 
a  thick  grey  veil  over  her  face  and  softly  went  out. 
Upon  the  landing  It  came  to  her  with  a  pang  that 
she  was  leaving  her  father's  house  like  a  thief  In 
the  night.  It  was  only  another  example  of  the 
boundless  perversity  of  things.  .  .  . 

In  the  streets  she  breathed  more  freely.  The  air 
was  cool  and  sparkling.  Even  the  tracery  of  shad- 
ows thrown  on  the  pavement  by  the  huge  structure 


I04  THE    BROKEN.    SNARE 

of  the  Elevated  Railroad  was  not  unbeautiful. 
Eighth  Avenue  hummed  with  alert  life.  The  chil- 
dren, playing  before  the  shops,  seemed  almost  to 
flash  in  the  sunlight.  From  carts  against  the  curb 
drifted  the  healthful  aroma  of  apples;  oranges 
gleamed  upon  them,  all  gold.  So  bright  and  busy 
were  all  things  In  the  rarefied  Autumn  air  that 
Frances  almost  forgot  the  tragic  ugliness  behind 
her.  The  road  stretched  before  her,  lustrous,  kiss- 
ing, in  far  distances,  the  pearly  sky.  It  was  goad 
to  be  alive  and  free. 

Her  ardour  was  a  little  dulled  when  she  found 
that  Julian  was  not  at  home.  But  her  heart  was 
still  hopeful,  and  she  sat  down  on  a  bench  In  the 
vestibule  to  wait.  The  uniformed  mulatto  porter 
grinned  impudently  at  her;  but  receiving  no  notice, 
began  to  crack  peanuts  defiantly.  Men  came  and 
went  through  the  vestibule,  and  each  one  glanced  at 
Frances,  courteously,  but  with  an  unmlstakeable  air 
of  faint  surprise.  Her  cheeks  began  to  burn  and 
her  eyelids  to  ache.  She  looked  at  her  watch  and 
found  that  only  half  an  hour  had  passed.  She  was 
very  thirsty  and  the  stiff,  wooden  bench  hurt  her 
back.  But  she  dared  not  leave  the  house,  fearing 
that  she  would  miss  Julian.  An  hour  passed  and 
all  her  limbs  began  to  ache.    Her  eyes  grew  dim 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  105 

with  tears  of  pain  and  humiliation;  one  fell  and 
clung  absurdly  to  the  meshes  of  her  veil.  The  men 
who  passed  in  and  out  with  such  cruel  frequency 
looked  at  her  now  with  a  perceptible  stare.  She 
had  made  of  herself  a  public  show,  but  the  longer 
she  waited  the  more  impossible  did  it  seem  to  move. 
At  last,  with  a  relief  as  incommunicably  sweet  and 
precious  as  the  cessation  of  some  corroding  pain, 
she  saw  Julian  enter  the  vestibule.  His  forehead 
contracted  slightly  as  he  saw  her. 

"You  here  ?  I  thought  we  were  not  to  meet  un- 
til day  after  to-morrow." 

"Julian,  IVe  been  waiting  for  you  so  long." 

"Poor  child!  Come;  we'll  get  some  luncheon  in 
the  neighbourhood.    This  is  no  place  for  you." 

They  went  to  a  pleasant  restaurant — a  minute's 
walk — and  sat  down.  Julian  insisted  that  she 
looked  fagged  and  should  drink  a  cup  of  bouillon 
before  explaining  her  action.  Then  he  looked  at 
her  questioningly. 

"Julian,  mamma  saw  us  at  the  door  last  night." 

"Yes;  well?" 

"Well,  we  had  a  terrible  explanation  this  morn- 
ing— terrible  I  I  had  said  that  I  would  see  you  no 
more.  And  now — ?  I'm  sick  of  deceit;  I  can't 
go  on  that  way — I  can't." 


io6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

*'You  could  not  have  saved  yourself  the  scene?" 

"No.  My  mother  is — oh,  I  can't  speak  of 
it  I  She  spoke  words  to  me  that  I  must  never  hear 
again.  And  to-night,  when  papa  comes  home  there 
is  to  be — a  tribunal ;  and  oh,  what  is  the  use,  since 
things  are  as  they  are?" 

"Are  as  they  are?"  he  echoed,  and  his  eyes 
burned  as  he  bent  them  upon  her. 

She  looked  away.  ^ 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

"You  may  trust  me,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  slowly, 
"me  and  my  love.  You  are  right — that  life  could 
not  go  on.  There  is  a  fairer  life  before  us.  Thank 
God  that  you  have  come." 

He  had  grown  pale  with  an  exultant  joy  and 
kept  silent  for  a  space,  mastering  his  emotion. 
,    Then  he  looked  at  her  thoughtfully. 

"Of  course,  we've  had  no  time  for  preparation. 
And  I've  a  pressing  engagement  for  to-night."  He 
stopped  a  moment.  "But,  to  be  sure,  you  have 
only  the  clothes  you  are  wearing?'* 

"Yes." 

"That  helps  us.  It  will  be  well  for  us  to  leave 
New  York  for  a  while,  and  I  will  procure  tickets 
for  us  on  a  steamer  sailing  South  at  once.  You 
have  never  been  in  the  South  and  you'  will  find  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  107 

winter  there  charming.  But  I  must  have  to-day 
and  to-morrow  free  to  arrange  my  own  affairs.  So 
you  can  use  the  time  to  buy  yourself  a  complete 
outfit." 

"And  where  am  I  to  be?" 

"In  a  private  hotel." 

"Alone?" 

"IVe  explained  the  situation  to  you,  dearest." 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  that  she  would  never 
again  stand  In  such  bitter  need  of  him  as  during 
these  first  few  desolate  days ;  that,  before  the  bare 
facts,  all  the  strange  exaltation,  all  her  Intellec- 
tual certainty  were  pitifully  melting  away,  and  that 
she  felt  like  a  lost  child.  But  there  was  a  sternness 
in  his  look  which  silenced  her. 

They  went  to  the  nearest  station  of  the  Subway 
and  rode  to  Astor  Place.  On  Eighth  Street,  near 
Fifth  Avenue,  Julian  rang  the  bell  of  a  respectable 
but  secretive-looking  house.  The  landlady,  a  Ger- 
man woman,  black-haired,  quiet,  but  alert,  came  to 
the  door  herself.  Julian  explained  that  the  young 
lady  with  him  desired  a  room  until  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  With  almost  Imperceptible  emphasis, 
he  added  that  he  would  call  for  a  few  minutes  on 
the  morrow.  The  landlady  nodded  and  left  the 
parlour. 


io8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"My  dear,"  said  Julian,  "you  will  not  be  an- 
noyed here.  To-morrow  after  twelve  Til  come  and 
we'll  take  luncheon  together.  In  the  meantime  get 
everything  you  need." 

Almost  furtively,  he  placed  a  purse  on  the  table. 
Then  he  opened  his  arms.  \ 

"Don't  be  afraid,  my  own  little  girl.  Think  of 
day  after  to-morrow.    Then  we'll  be  together." 

"Always?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

"Always!" 

He  kissed  her  mouth  and  eyes  and  went  out.  She 
heard  the  slamming  of  the  front  door  and  hurried 
to  the  window.     But  he  did  not  look  back. 


VIII 

Frances  sat  down  In  the  shabby  velvet  arm- 
chair. She  felt  utterly  abandoned.  She  had  been 
brave  enough  with  all  the  sustaining  forces  of  her 
past  about  her.  Now  she  was  afraid,  lost,  sick  at 
heart.  A  soft  shuffling  of  feet  In  the  hallway  was 
followed  by  the  entrance  of  the  landlady. 

"I  have  not  a  front-room  for  you,  Madame." 

Frances  tried  to  smile. 

"It  hardly  matters  for  such  a  short  time." 

"No,  and  ze  room  I  gif  you  Iss  very  nice.  If  you 
viU  now  come  up?" 

She  led  the  way  upstairs  to  a  large,  cool  room 
at  the  baek  of  the  house,  with  a  distressing  view 
upon  stony  courts  and  fluttering  clothes-lines,  but 
comfortably  and,  In  truth,  not  unhandsomely  ap- 
pointed. 

"Now,  If  you  vlll  vant  any  zing,  you  vlll  yoost 
ring  ze  bell.    So,  zat  Iss  right,  not?" 

She  was  about  to  go,  but  turned  back. 

"But  I  must  not  forget.    ZIss  Is  yours,  I  zink?" 
109 


no  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  held  out  Julian's  purse. 
Involuntarily,  before  she  could  restrain  herself, 
Frances'  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Yes."  / 

The  German  woman's  face  softened!  , 

"You  must  be  more  careful  wiss  ze  money, 
madame.    It  iss  ze  only  real  zing  ve  haf.  .  .  ." 

Frances  divined  the  woman's  meaning  and 
flushed  furiously.  It  seemed  to  her,  when  the 
woman  was  gone,  that  she  could  not  touch  the 
purse.  All  the  social  Instincts  of  her  womanhood 
rebelled  against  the  money.  But  she  knew  that 
Julian  would  be  Impatient  If  she  delayed  their 
voyage  by  not  providing  the  things  that  were,  after 
all,  indispensable.  Also,  she  reasoned  that  by  im- 
plication she  had  really  pledged  herself  to  accept 
his  support,  and  she  was  just  enough  to  see  that 
she  would  inflict  useless  pain  upon  him  by  making 
trouble  over  so  ugly  but  so  necessary  a  detail  of  life. 
He  had  behaved  In  the  matter  with  all  the  delicacy 
— not  very  fine  or  subtle,  to  be  sure^ — ^but  with  all  of 
which  the  situation  was  susceptible.  If  she  accentu^ 
ated  the  detail,  the  vulgarity  would  undeniably  be 
on  her  side.  This  reasoning  would  have  satisfied 
her  fully,  if  only  the  landlady  had  not  made  that 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  iii 

odious  reference.  Why,  why  had  Julian  brought 
her  here? 

She  opened  the  purse  and  discovered,  to  her 
amazement,  that  it  contained  far  more  money  than 
she  had  ever  seen,  and,  with  this  thought,  a  pleas- 
ant sense  of  power  came.  Insidiously,  to  her.  She 
sat  still,  handling  the  bills  dreamily.  Yes,  It  would 
be  delightful  to  spend  money  upon  herself  with 
what  seemed  to  her  a  splendid  recklessness.  In  her 
young  dreams  she  had  spent  a  great  many  fortunes; 
the  poorer  she  had  been,  the  more  gorgeously  had 
she  lived  In  her  Imagination.  And  now — ?  Julian 
loved  her  and  It  was  de^r  and  kind  of  him  to  be  so 
quietly  generous.  She  would  go  out  and  buy  some 
things  for  a  part  of  the  money — not  all,  of  course. 
That  would  be  abusing  his  kindness. 

She  put  on  her  solitary  little  hat  and  walked  the 
short  distance  to  Wanamaker's.  There  she  In- 
dulged all  the  feminine  longings  of  her  soul,  so  long 
and  so  sorely  starved.  She  bought  dresses  and  hats 
and  gloves,  long,  beautifully  woven  stockings,  and 
daintily  embroidered  underwear,  things  flimsy  and 
charming  such  as  she  had  never  before  possessed. 
With  a  momentous  little  sigh  she  hesitated  between 
garters  with  solid  gold  buckles  and  those  with 
plated  ones.    She  decided  to  take  the  former.  They 


112  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

would  be  more  satisfactory  in  the  end.  And  now 
she  bought  veils,  and  handkerchiefs  like  gossamer, 
and,  finally,  wonderful  shoes  of  graceful  shape  and 
positively  no  weight  at  all.  The  hours  passed  in 
a  delicious  madness,  and  when  it  was  all  over  she 
still  had  a  considerable  sum  left.  She  ordered  these 
things  to  be  sent  at  once  to  her  lodgings,  and  with 
a  deep  satisfaction  tingling  in  her  blood,  went  out 
into  the  dusty  street. 

She  discovered  that  she  was  very  hungry,  and 
slipped  into  a  modest  little  restaurant.  There  she 
ordered  tea  and  toast  and  salad  and  little  cakes. 
The  meal,  without  soup  or  meat,  was  to  her  own 
taste.  But  she  could  hardly  finish  it,  so  drowsy  she 
was.  The  day  had  been  long  and  busy  and  varied, 
but  it  was  ending  in  soft  dreaminess  and  peace.  No 
fear  or  misgiving  disturbed  her  now  as  she  entered 
the  lodging-house  and  then  her  room,  and,  wearied 
with  the  intense  living  of  so  many  hours,  she  fell 
asleep  at  once.  ... 

Morning  came,  cool  and  windy,  but  full  of  lumi- 
nous sunlight.  Frances  awoke,  and  seeing  the 
room  In  which  she  lay,  the  whole  strangeness  and 
danger  of  the  situation  gripped  her.  But  the  sight 
of  her  new  trunks  was  calming,  not  because  her 
heart  was  set  wholly,  or  even  disproportionately, 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  113 

upon  material  things,  but  because,  by  virtue  of  these 
things,  she  had  entered  one  of  the  valleys  of  the 
faery  land  of  her  dreams,  and  a  golden  haze  soft- 
ened the  sharp  realities  of  life.  No  doubt  it  was 
very  heartless  and  frivolous,  but  she  could  not  help 
being  glad  that  these  charming  things  were  hers, 
that  she  need  not  hurry  to  the  table  and  hear  her 
mother's  exasperated  complaints  shrilling  through 
the  dim  shabblness  of  their  Harlem  flat.  Never 
had  she  felt  so  keenly,  as  In  her  new-found  freedom, 
how  poverty  enslaves  and  degrades.  She  tried  to 
force  herself  to  think  sorrowfully  of  her  father  and 
mother,  to  press  the  thorn  into  her  heart,  but  she 
could  only  summon  a  vague  pity  as  for  things  far 
off  and  half  forgotten.  She  got  up  and  dressed 
herself  in  her  soft,  new  apparel.  The  delicate  linen 
and  the  silk  stockings  seemed  to  caress  her  flesh. 
She  put  on  a  grey  gown  trimmed  with  smooth  vel- 
vet and  rich  Persian  bands.  Hat  and  gloves  har- 
monised with  the  gown,  and  she  stood  before  the 
mirror  satisfied.  With  her  pretty  clothes  she  seemed 
deliberately  to  have  put  on  a  new  personality.  She 
seemed  surer  of  herself  and  of  others.  The  horri- 
ble old  torture  of  being  so-  often,  externally,  at  a 
disadvantage,  and  of  being,  In  consequence,  shy 
and   awkward,   seemed  unimaginable  now.      Her 


114  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

glance  was  directer,  her  step  firmer,  her  manner 
more  assured.  She  was  very  clearly  conscious  of 
the  transformation  and  realised  something  of  the 
innermost  spiritual  reaction  of  the  externals  of  life. 
She  went  out,  breakfasted,  and  took  a  short  walk. 
She  was  glad  that  It  was  already  ten  o'clock,  so  that 
only  two  hours  need  pass,  before  Julian  would  come. 
She  bought  a  magazine,  returned  tc^  the  house  and 
sat  down  In  her  room.  But  she  could  not  read. 
Her  thoughts  swayed  In  a  whirl  of  light.  She  pic- 
tured to  hersdf  the  swift  voyage  on  which  they 
were  going,  softly  over  Immeasurable  seas,  the 
white  foam  following ;  the  palms  and  gaudy  flowers 
of  the  South,  and  love — love  as  a  guide.  Through 
all  the  years  she  had  yeurned  with  a  heart-breaking 
nostalgia  for  bright  and  beautiful  places.  She  had 
dreamed  of  wide,  stately  verandahs,  with  views  of 
far  blue  waters  and  vigilance  above  of  everlasting 
stars.  There  she  had  seen  herself  clad  in  lustrous 
white,  and  beside  her  a  figure,  strong  but  indistinct, 
who  spoke  adoring  words.  The  dream  was  superla- 
tively silly,  fearlessly  sentimental,  victoriously  ro- 
mantic, splendidly  reckless  of  time  and  place,  and 
the  sad  probabilities  of  mortal  life — a  dream  of 
youth.  And  it  was  coming  true!  This  was  her 
hour  of  purest  happiness,  luminous  forever  through 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  115 

all  the  years  to  come.  She  stood  upon  the  immi- 
nent boundary  of  the  Land  of  her  Heart's  Desire, 
where  yet  no  cruelty  of  love  could  assail,  no  shadow 
fall.  Firmly  she  held  the  fair  things  that  are  not 
and  therefore  are  immortal.  This  was  her 
hour.  ... 

Julian  came  promptly  upon  the  stroke  of  twelve. 
He  tilted  her  chin  and  kissed  her.  He  was  in  one 
of  his  sunny  moods. 

"What  a  little  duck  you  look!  Did  you  get 
everything  you  needed?" 

"Yes.  Tm  afraid  I  spent  a  great  deal — and 
here's  the  rest." 

"No,  dear;  that's  not  the  way  we  can  manage.  I 
hate  discussion  about  money,  so  let  us  settle  this  at 
once.  I'm  not  a  Croesus.  But  what  I  have  we'll 
share.  You  use  the  money  as  you  see  fit,  and  say 
no  more  about  it." 

She  put  her  hands  into  his. 

"You  are  good !" 

"Don't,  dear.  No  man  is  good — in  a  sense.  And 
now,"  he  continued,  "we  must  go  out  for  some 
luncheon.  I  have  still  to  attend  to  innumerable  de- 
tails." 

They  talked  with  a  bright  restlessness  of  their 
voyage  and  the  Winter  to  come.    He  told  her  many 


ii6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

things  of  the  country  to  which  they  were  going,  and 
all  the  details  seemed  to  her  exquisitely  romantic. 
But  they  shared  silences,  too,  more  eloquent  than 
any  speech,  for  there  was  before  them  that  one 
eternal  adventure  of  mankind — love — more  roman- 
tic than  any  palm-girt  land,  more  formidable  than 
any  earthly  voyage. 

"I'm  glad  that  I've  never  been  anywhere,  have 
never  seen  anything,"  she  said  dreamily;  "so  now 
everything  will  be  so  new,  so»  delightful.  .  .  ." 

She  was  a  little  Irritated  at  the  businesslike  thor- 
oughness with  which  Julian  ate'  the  successive 
courses  of  the  meal.  He  noticed  her  Irritation  and 
laughed. 

"You  must  get  used  to  It,  sweetheart;  I  am,  after 
all,  a  mere  man  not  made  of  air  and  fire,  and  good 
food  is  a  good  thing.  .  .  ." 

His  Irony  hurt  her  and  she  kept  silence.    As  he 
continued  to  eat,  her  Irritation  grew.    He  looked  up 
at  her  and  his  face  grew  grave. 
'      "Did  I  hurt  you,  dearest?    It  was  just  a  manner 
of  speaking." 

But  she  was  not  so  happy  after  this  incident. 
Carefully  as  he  tried  to  conceal  his  feelings,  he  was 
evidently  apprehensive  that  she  would  make  trouble 
over  little  things.     He  left  her  at  the  door  of  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  117 

lodging-house,  bidding  her  to  be  ready  at  eleven 
o'clock  of  the  next  forenoon.  He  pressed  her  hand 
and  then  lifted  his  hat  courteously,  but  the  kiss 
which  he  had  not  been  able  to  give  her  burned  upon 
her  lips  like  fire. 

It  was  only  three  o'clock  and  the  interminable 
hours  stretched  out  before  her.  She  looked  list- 
lessly at  the  engraved  card  which  Julian  had  given 
her.  It  bore  these  words :  Villa  Mercedes,  Queens- 
haven, South  Carolina.  The  destination  did  not  seem 
so  bright  now.  With  a  sudden  yearning  she  thought 
of  the  dark  little  home  up-town,  and  her  father  and 
mother  left  desolate;  she  thought  of  Morningside 
Park,  dim  under  a  rain-drenched  sky;  of  long,  lone- 
ly walks  there  and  the  twinkling  black  eyes  of  the 
elusive  squirrels.  Her  heart  ached.  What,  after 
all,  did  she  know  of  this  man  with  whom  she  was 
going  away,  for  whose  sake  she  was  abandoning, 
at  least,  the  security  from  the  world's  storms  that 
had  been  hers?  He  seemed  to  her  suddenly  a  be- 
ing strange,  hostile  and  full  of  terrible  possibilities. 
How  difficult  life  was,  how  difficult.  .  .  . 

She  could  not  stay  In  her  strange  room  with  the 
depressing  view  of  fire-escapes  and  clothes-lines,  but 
went  out  Into  the  street.  Which  way  to  turn  ?  And 
then,  with  a  melancholy  pleasure,  the  thought  came 


ii8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

to  her  to  ride  up-town.  She  might  never  again  sec 
the  street  and  the  house  where  her  home  was,  or  the 
park  where  she  had  dreamed  so  often,  or  the  win- 
dow of  the  drab  little  drawing-room  which  seemed, 
to  her  imagination,  almost  friendly  now.  She  hesi- 
tated, troubled  for  a  moment,  in  the  station  of  the 
underground  railroad,  before  she  dropped  her 
ticket  into  the  receiver.  Then  she  passed  on.  She 
entered  an  express  train  and  in  a  few  minutes 
stepped  from  the  tunnel  entrance  out  upon  Cathe- 
dral Heights.  The  stately  Hudson  flowed  on  far 
below,  but  she  hardly  glanced  in  that  direction,  hur- 
rying eastward. 

And  now  she  was  in  her  own  street,  and  some- 
thing rose  in  her  throat.  Life  was  so  hard  in  it- 
self, so  transitory,  and  men  and  women  in  their 
mad  blindness  increased  its  bitterness  by  wilfully 
hurting  and  misunderstanding  each  other.  It 
seemed  to  her,  at  this  moment,  incredibly  tragic. 
She  walked  on  slowly  toward  the  comer  and  passed 
the  house  where  she  had  lived  and  dreamed  so  long. 
Looking  forward  she  saw,  with  a  swift  pang,  the 
nodding  of  a  bonnet  set  awry.  It  was  her  mother 
returning  from  some  household  errand.  The  older 
woman  looked  grey  and  sad  and  shabby.    Her  eyes 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  119 

were  fixed  on  the  ground.  She  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  still  unseeing. 

*'Mamma  I'*  Frances  whispered. 

The  tawdry,  pitiful  old  bonnet  swayed  to  the 
other  side. 

*'Oh,  my  child!" 

Suffering  had  purged  the  voice  of  sharpness  and 
reproach. 

*Tanny,  are  you  coming  home?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"No,  mamma,  dear;  I  can't — I  can't.  It's  too 
late." 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Down-town;  but  we're  going  away  to-morrow. 
Mamma,  will  you  write  to  me?" 

She  opened  her  purse  and  gave  her  mother  the 
card  bearing  her  Southern  address. 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  not  accustomed  to  write  let- 
ters, but  I'll  try.    Fanny,  It's  very  lonely  at  home." 

"Oh,  mamma,  I'm  sorry,  so  terribly  sorry. 
What  does  papa  say?" 

"Not  a  word;  and  he  won't  let  me  say  anything, 
either.    Will  you  come  up  ?" 

But  Frances  shook  her  head  again.  She  could 
not  bear  It.  She  put  her  arms  about  her  mother 
and  kissed  her  long  and  close.    The  kiss  was  full 


I20  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

of  remorse,  of  impassioned  pity,  and  of  the  stern- 
ness of  fate.  As  she  watched  the  door  of  the  house 
hide  the  last  tip  of  her  mother's  bonnet  her  eyes 
filled  with  scalding  tears.  This,  then,  was  an  end 
of  all  the  old  things  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
grown  dear.  Resolutely  she  turned  her  head  from 
the  house.  She  had  chosen.  Slowly  she  passed 
once  more  through  the  familiar  streets ;  she  saw  the 
grocery-shop,  the  butcher-shop,  the  bakery,  whither 
she  had  often  gone  with  what  had  seemed  to  her 
then  a  derogation  of  her  girlish  dignity.  If  it  were 
all  to  be  lived  over  again,  would  she  perform  her 
duties  in  a  gentler  mood  and  with  a  sweeter  spirit? 
She  thought  so,  and  yet  knew  the  thought  to  be  de- 
ceptive. The  old  narrowness,  the  old  ugliness,  the 
old  repression  would  stir  again  the  old  passionate 
revolt.  Passing  to  Eighth  Avenue,  she  ascended 
the  high  tower  of  the  Elevated  Railroad  at  One 
Hundred  and  Sixteenth  Street,  and  rode  back  to 
Astor  Place. 

In  her  room  she  was  surprised  by  a  long  envelope 
upon  her  table.  It  was  a  special  delivery  letter  ad- 
dressed in  Julian's  nervous  handwriting.  She  tore 
it  open  and  the  enclosure  that  fell  out  was  a  letter 
from  her  father,  sent  to  her  at  Julian's  apartment. 
Her  hands  trembled  as  she  opened  It  and  hurried 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  121 

to  a  seat  near  the  window  where,  in  the  evening 
light,  she  read,  not  without  tears,  her  father's 
words : 

"I  am  inexpressibly  grieved,  not  only  by  your 
conduct,  which,  though  I  condemn,  I  understand, 
but  perhaps  more  by  the  want  of  confidence  in  my 
love  and  friendship  that  you  have  shown.  Your 
mother,  with  the  best  intentions,  no  doubt,  exag-. 
gerated  what  she  conceives  to*be  my  sternness.  You 
might  have  known  me  better!  The  problems  in- 
volved were  so  very,  very  different.  But  the  words 
I  wish  to  say  to  you  in  all  kindness,  yet  all  serious- 
ness, are  these:  The  experience  of  numerous  gen- 
erations, the  consensus  of  civilised  mankind — these 
things  are  based,  you  must  believe,  upon  no  light 
impulse,  no  varying  utility,  but  upon  deep  and  con- 
stant needs.  The  individual  breaks  through  these 
elementary  restrictions  at  his  own  peril,  and  I  sol- 
emnly warn  you  and  Ware  either  to  separate  or  to 
make  your  peace  with  society  by  marrying.  You 
have  gone  with  him,  I  believe,  freely  consenting  to 
an  Irregular  union,  and  hence  I  accuse  him  of  no 
melodramatic  crime,  but  Include  him  In  my  kindly 
warning.  I  am  firmly  convinced,  my  child,  that 
you  have  made  a  terrible  and  sinful  mistake,  but  I 


122;  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

wish  to  convince  you,  not  to  alienate  you  by  vain 
reproaches.  Our  home  is  very  sad  without  you,  and 
I  am  lonely  in  my  growing  age.  But  it  is  not  my 
happiness  that  I  am  concerned  for;  it  is  yours.  Re- 
member, my  dear  child,  that  whatever  happens,  I 
am  your  friend  and  protector,  and  my  home  is 
yours.  But  you  m.ust  return  to  me  either  alone  or 
as  a  married  woman;  nor  do  I  think  it  well  that 
you  should  write  to  me  until  you  are  either  one  or 
the  other." 

The  temperateness  and  kindness  of  the  letter 
touched  her  poignantly.  She  was  in  no  mood  to 
heed  its  warning  or  follow  its  reasoning.  Rather 
did  it  give  her  hope  for  the  future  and  gladness  in 
the  recognition  that  life  was  not  always  cruel,  not 
wholly  merciless ;  that  the  victory  was  not  always  to 
blind  prejudice  and  passion,  but  to  charity,  to  rea- 
sonableness and  to  the  understanding  heart. 


IX 


The  grey  dawn  awakened  Frances  from  her 
light  sleep.  She  drew  apart  the  hangings  of  a  win- 
dow and  looked  out.  A  swift  wind  drove  turbu- 
lent clouds  over  a  gaunt  and  pallid  sky.  It  was  a 
day  on  which  to  bury  one's  old  life  and  to  set  out 
with  the  far-travelling  winds  on  other  quests.  The* 
spirit  of  the  day  passed  into  her  soul.  She  was 
glad  that  the  sea  would  receive  her  and  the  im- 
petuous wind  carry  her  afar  upon  its  wings.  She 
opened  the  window  and  let  her  hair  stream  in  the 
air — in  the  brave  adventurous  wind.  The  world 
seemed  rapturously  wide.  Oh,  that  there  might 
be  no  goal  of  faring  and  no  end  of  travel. 

It  was  impossible  to  return  to  bed.  She  dressed 
herself  warmly  as  befitted  a  far  voyage.  Then  she 
packed  her  trunks  and,  having  done  that,  paced  her 
dim  room  in  a  fury  of  restlessness.  The  wind 
whistled  and  raindrops  splashed  against  the  win- 
dow-panes.    But  the  insurgent  wind  was   not   so 

swift  as  the  running  of  her  blood;  the  patter  of  the 

i»3 


124  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

rain  not  so  breathless  as  the  beating,  of  her  heart. 
To  be  away,  away,  over  a  slate-coloured  sea,  under 
a  dim  heaven,  driven  by  vast,  Irresistible  storms,  on- 
ward to  the  ends  of  the  earth  I 

At  eight  she  ventured  out.  The  wind  blew  upon 
her,  lifted  her  skirt,  tore  off  her  veil,  worried  her 
hair.  She  fought  her  way  along  the  street  with 
tingling  pleasure.  This  was  to  live !  After  a  while 
she  became  hungry  and,  entering  a  restaurant,  ate 
a  hearty  breakfast.  Then  out  again,  for  she  could 
not  keep  still  in  this  glorious  travelling-weather,  out 
into  the  wind! 

At  length  she  grew  a  little  tired  and  returned 
to  the  lodging-house.  She  had  only  about  another 
hour  to  wait,  and  it  would  pass  swiftly.  Then 
Julian  would  come  to  take  her  away.  The  slight 
irritation  during  their  last  meeting  was  forgotten, 
her  own  perilous  position  was  forgotten,  and  her 
father's  grave  words.  She  used  to  herself  the  an- 
cient simile  of  the  liberated  bird.  The  doors  of  her 
cage  had  opened  at  last.  She  ran  up  once  more  to 
her  room  to  see  that  she  had  forgotten  none  of  her 
new  and  precious  possessions  in  her  haste.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  parlour  and  gazed  out  upon  the 
scurrying  Autumn  weather. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  125 

At  eleven  o'clock  a  huge  four-wheeler  drove  up 
to  the  door  and  Julian  stepped  out.  He  came  in 
swiftly  and  caught  her  as  she  ran  to  his  arms.  The 
same  feeling  possessed  both :  this  was  the  beginning 
of  life.  But  after  that  first  embrace  Julian  was 
brief  and  business-like.  Abruptly  he  ordered  that 
the  trunks  be  carried  out.  His  own  had  been  sent 
on  before.  Then  he  called  for  the  landlady,  paid 
her  and  dismissed  her  brusquely.  He  turned  to 
Frances. 

"Are  you  ready?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,  then." 

He  gave  orders  to  the  driver  and  helped  Frances 
into  the  carriage.  They  sat  close  together  and  held 
each  other's  hands.  He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it. 

"It  isn't  merry  weather,  is  it,  dear?" 

"Ah,  but  I  like  it." 

"Good!  So  do  I.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
wouldn't.    It's  just  the  day  for  a  mad  start." 

"Julian !"    She  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"Sweetheart,  it's  a  mad  world.  Life  is  mad, 
death  is  mad,  but  love  is  the  maddest  of  all  things  I 
Wait,  wait  I" 


126  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

He  kissed  her  mouth  and  eyes  softly  and  tender- 
ly, and  she  was  satisfied.  They  drove  through  dim 
and  narrow  streets  on  the  lower  West  Side,  through 
Greenwich  Street,  the  rumbling  Elevated  Railroad 
almost  filling  it,  and  turned  the  corner  of  Spring 
Street  to  the  North  River.  There  In  the  Indescrib- 
able confusion  of  the  wharf  traffic,  amid  huge 
waggons  and  drays,  whose  drivers,  infuriated  by  de- 
lay and  rain,  cursed  hoarsely,  the  carriage  slowly 
made  its  way.  At  last  It  reached  the  passenger  en- 
trance of  the  Hope  Line.  Sleek  negro  porters  as- 
sisted Frances  and  Julian  to  alight  and  led  them, 
first  through  a  narrow  hall,  then  across  a  carpeted 
gang-plank,  to  the  clean-swabbed  deck  of  the 
Sequoia. 

They  stood  still  and  looked  into  the  black 
waters  idly  beating  the  vessel's  side.  The  flapping 
of  a  rope,  far  in  the  tall  rigging,  seemed  to  be  the 
only  sound.  For  the  noises  of  the  city  had  suddenly 
melted  away,  as  if  already  an  immeasurable  dls^ 
tance  divided  it  from  them.  Before  them  lay  the 
harbour,  full  of  outgoing  ships.  The  sight  seemed 
to  Frances  suddenly  to  estrange  her  from  her  whole 
past.  She  turned  to  Julian  and  folded  her  small, 
gloved  hands  on  his  breast. 


THE   BROKEN    SNARE  127 

"Dear,  I  have  no  one  but  you  now.  You  will 
be  kind  and  patient?" 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  known  him  a 
moisture  gathered  in  his  eyes. 

"I  will,  dear  heart,  please  God." 


The  wind  fell.  Over  calm  waters  but  under 
heavy  clouds,  the  Sequoia  steamed  through  the 
harbour  of  New  York.  Heavy  mists  hid  the  shore 
on  either  side  and  nothing  was  visible  to  the  search- 
ing eye  save  the  grimy  harbour  traffic  of  coal-barges 
and  wheezing  tug-boats.  Forlornly  the  hoarse 
whistles  saluted  each  other ;  and  with  eyes  strangely 
dull  and  lifeless,  men  from  the  cabin-windows  of 
barge  and  boat  surveyed  the  steamer  going  South. 
To  them,  In  their  coarse  lives  on  the  Inland  waters 
or  along  the  river-front,  the  passengers  of  the 
Sequoia  were  alien  beings  In  an  alien  world. 
Was  there  behind  those  heavy  eyes  no  yearning  to 
leave  the  grime  of  coal  and  tar,  the  shriek  of 
whistles,  the  hoarse  voices  hurtling  oaths,  and  fol- 
low a  fairer  way  along  the  ocean-path?  It  seemed 
to  Frances  that  there  must  be  woe  in  these  longing 
hearts  and  lamentation.  But  Julian  would  not 
agree  with  her. 

"Your  fanciful  pity,"  he  said,  *'Is  really  a  failure 

128 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  129 

in  sympathy.  For  those  men  the  world  of  their 
own  lives  is  real  and  tremendously  insistent.  Their 
work  is  broken  by  coarse  pleasures  which  suit  them. 
They  have  no  time  for  vague  emotionalism.  Their 
attitude  to  us,  if  they  have  any,  is  probably  quite 
satirical." 

"And  I  was  so  sorry  for  them !" 

*'Your  pity  is  the  last  thing  they  want,  and  they 
are  right." 

*'How  hard  you  are,  Julian." 

*'As  the  truth  is  hard." 

A  sudden  clangour  startled  them  both.  They 
turned  and  saw  a  negro  steward  beating  a  muffled 
kettle-drumstick  against  a  huge,  round  gong.  The 
thunderous  vibrations  swept  through  their  nerves 
and  quivered  far  down  their  spines.  It  was  the 
call  to  luncheon.  A  sense  of  the  unreality  of  all 
things  came  to  Frances.  She  and  Julian  would  now 
go  to  their  state-room  to  wash  and  dress  for  the 
meal,  and  would  be,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  most 
intimate  manner,  alone  together.  She  could  not 
believe  that  these  things  had  really  come  to  pass. 
Had  she  not,  so  far,  played  with  things  unrealised? 
The  reality  was  upon  her.  Julian  divined  her  ner- 
vousness and  its  cause  and  lingered  yet  a  few  min- 
utes.   But  he  was  hungry,  after  all. 


/ 

I30  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"Come,  dear." 

They  had  procured  a  state-room  on  the  upper 
deck.  It  was  small,  but  neat  and  compact. 
Frances  glanced  furtively  at  the  two  narrow, 
white  berths,  one  above  the  other.  Then  she 
started  to  arrange  her  hair  before  the  slanting  mir- 
ror. In  It  she  could  watch  Julian,  who  had  sat  down 
on  the  small  sofa  behind  her,  and  she  saw  how  he 
grew  pale  and  how  his  hands  grasped  the  cushion 
as  the  colls  of  her  hair  slowly  unwound  themselves 
and  rolled  down  her  back.  He  got  up  and  stretched 
out  his  arms  toward  her.  She  closed  her  eyes  for 
a  space  and  he  kissed  her  soft  hair  and  face  with 
an  abandon  of  passion.  Then  he  put  her  away, 
laughing. 

"I  suppose  we  ought  to  go  to  luncheon." 

It  was  strange  to  see  him  take  off  his  coat  and 
bathe  his  hands  and  face.  But  his  matter-of-course 
air  comforted  her  and  she  did  not  betray  her  emo- 
tions. He  sat  down  again  on  the  sofa,  polishing  his 
nails,  and  she  noted  the  extreme  precision  and  neat- 
ness of  all  his  personal  habits.  Then  they  went 
down  to  the  dinlng-hall. 

The  chief  steward,  a  small,  stout  man,  met  them 
at  the  door.  He  examined  the  tickets  to  discover 
what  places  had  been  assigned  them  at  the  table, 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  131 

and  Frances,  glancing  over  his  shoulder,  saw  that 
the  second  ticket  bore  the  name  of  Mrs.  Julian 
Ware.  She  did  not  know  why  the  deception  made 
her  ashamed,  seeing  that  she  had  accepted  the  sit- 
uation of  which  It  was  an  Inevitable  part.  But  a 
certain  vulgarity  seemed  to  cling  to  It,  as  to  the 
seductions  In  penny-dreadfuls  of  which  she  had 
read  very  long  ago.  It  seemed  to  her,  at  all  events, 
as  if  every  eye  must  be  upon  her,  as  If  even  the 
tawdry,  cadaverous  woman  torn  hither  and  thither 
by  two  unruly  and  repulsive  .  children,  who  sat 
across  the  board  from  her,  must  arise  In  denuncia- 
tory wrath.  That  the  woman  sadly  envied  her  for 
her  youth  and  apparent  prosperity,  did  not  occur 
to  her.  Julian  was  delicately  attentive,  but  she  had 
no  appetite.  She  did  not  like  the  food,  to  which 
clung  a  pervasive  flavour  of  bananas  and  aromatic 
grapes,  and  she  felt  111  at  ease  among  the  people 
who  sat  at  the  long  tables.  They  were  a  strange 
enough  crew:  retired  shop-keepers,  probably,  and 
mechanics,  coarsely  prosperous  In  a  small  but  ob- 
trusive way,  wearing  odd  caps  by  which  they 
seemed  to  symbolise  this  adventurous  break  in  their 
humdrum  lives;  men  with  scraggy  beards,  gross 
feeders,  to  whom  the  not  very  delectable  but  preten- 
tious fare  was   of   unusual   splendour.     They   re- 


132  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

marked  upon  it  with  smacking  of  lips  and  a  plenti- 
ful use  of  wooden  tooth-picks.  Large-boned  women 
and  girls  in  the  finery  of  country  shops  sat  between, 
breaking  out,  at  the  veriest  nothings.  Into  harsh, 
empty  laughter.  The  talk  of  all  these  people  was 
appalling  in  its  sheer  externality.  They  spoke  of 
the  places  In  Florida  to  which  they  were  bound,  of 
the  chances  there  of  hunting  and  fishing.  Stories 
were  told  of  huge  fish  caught  near  Fernandlna. 
The  speed  of  the  vessel  was  discussed  and  compared 
with  that  of  others  of  the  same  line.  Not  the  simr 
plest  reflection,  not  the  faintest  idea  illuminated  the 
talk.  It  was  an  Interminable  clatter  of  things, 
things,  things — until  Frances*  head  swam  and  her 
eyes  ached.  She  told  Julian  of  her  impression  and 
his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her  with  deep  tenderness. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  feel  all  that  independently. 
Isn't  the  talk  discouraging?  When  one  considers 
the  average  American's  complete  immersion  in  the 
mere  machinery  of  life  one  loses  all  hope  in  our 
future.  The  blackest  bigotry  of  the  most  unintelli- 
gent creed  would  be  better  than  this  utter  soulless- 
ness!" 

"Infinitely,  of  course.  But  is  this  the  average 
American  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  my  dear.    One  hardly  meets  him 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  133 

in  the  mass  In  New  York.  But  so  soon  as  one  be- 
gins to  travel — there  he  Is,  and  always  the  same: 
good-natured  and  by  no  means  stupid ;  full  of  a  su- 
perficial Intelligence,  but  utterly  without  Intellect. 
He  has  forgotten  his  Bible  and  is  cynical  on  the 
subject  of  politics.  What  remains?  An  interest 
in  the  mere  mechanism  of  existence,  the  speed  of 
trains  and  the  trade  of  ports.  It  would  be  merely 
hateful  If  It  were  not  so  dangerous  to  our  whole 
national  future." 

Frances  was  glad  to  discuss  serious  subjects  with 
him ;  glad,  too,  of  their  community  of  feeling  which 
showed  itself  so  often.  But  the  oppression  of  hu- 
manity was  upon  her  and  she  wanted  to  go  out  on 
deck  Into  the  keen  sea  air.  Julian  helped  her  up 
the  winding  stairs,  which  seemed  now  to  swing  peri- 
lously. She  did  not  feel  better  on  deck.  They  had 
passed  through  the  whole  length  of  the  harbour 
and  were  out  among  the  tumbling  waves.  The 
ship  rocked  dizzily  and  Frances  clung  to  the  rail- 
ing. A  feeling  of  extreme  helplessness  and  lassitude 
assailed  her.  Julian  put  his  arm  around  her  and 
looked  smilingly  upon  her  pale  face. 

"Fm  afraid  youVe  not  a  good  sailor,  dear.  But 
try  to  fight  the  sea-sickness  down;  It  sometimes 


134  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

yields  to  energetic  treatment.  And  don't  look  at 
the  water." 

He  told  her  to  keep  still  where  she  was  and  went 
to  fetch  a  long  deck-chair.  This  he  placed  with  its 
back  against  the  railing;  then  made  her  lie  down 
in  it,  and  wrapt  her  feet  in  a  travelling-rug.  But 
she  was  ill  and  afraid.  The  huge  smoke-stack  of 
the  ship,  from  which  she  could  not  take  her  eyes, 
seemed  alternately  to  fall  towards  her  and  then  to 
plunge  into  the  sea  beyond.  She  had  never  expe- 
rienced such  unrelieved  misery  of  the  body.  The 
sharpest  definite  pain  would  have  been  preferable. 
iVague  odours  of  food  floated  from  the  door  of  the 
saloon,  a  wafture  of  tobacco-smoke  from  the  smok- 
ing-room on  deck,  and  both  distressed  Frances  hor- 
ribly. 

"Let  me  go  and  lie  down,"  she  begged. 

"Try  It  a  little  longer,"  he  suggested.  "The 
mental  attitude  is  half  the  battle.  Determine  not 
to  be  sick."  ' 

She  hardly  heard  him  In  her  wretchedness. 

"Oh,  I  can't  bear  it,  I  can't  bear  it!" 

"My  dear  child,  no  one  has  ever  been  the  worse 
off  for  an  attack  of  sea-sickness,  but  If  you  really 
must  He  down — " 

"Please,  Julian!" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  135 

He  supported  her  to  the  state-room  and,  with 
nimble  fingers,  helped  her  to  take  off  her  hat  and 
lie  down  In  the  lower  berth.  She  sighed  with  Infi- 
nite relief  and  hid  her  head  In  the  pillows.  He 
stood  by  helplessly. 

** Don't  stay  here,"  she  murmured. 

* 'Shall  I  send  the  stewardess  to  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

*'Leave  me  alone — please." 

He  knelt  down  and  kissed  her  hand. 

*'Don't  think  that  Vm  not  sorry  for  you,  dearest. 
But  I  know  how  slight  a  thing  It  is.  You'll  laugh 
at  yourself  to-morrow." 

He  went  out,  and  she  noticed  his  shadow  pass 
and  repass  the  window  as  he  walked  briskly  up 
and  down  the  deck.  Every  now  and  then  he  would 
stop  and  look  In,  but,  seeing  that  she  had  not 
changed  her  position,  continued  on  his  way. 
Thought  left  her,  though  she  did  not  sleep.  The 
sense  of  relief  felt  at  first  lying  down  was  over  and 
she  was  conscious  only  of  the  pitiless  roll  of  the 
ship  and  the  monstrous  throbbing  of  the  engine. 
If  it  would  cease  for  a  moment — ah,  but  for  a  mo- 
ment !  As  the  slow  hours  passed  her  brain  cleared, 
though  the  pain  and  nausea  continued.  She  thought 
of  home,  of  the  swift  events  which  had  brought  her 


136  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

into  her  present  state,  and  for  a  while  lost  her  grip 
completely,  crying  weakly  as  a  child.  Julian  came 
in  and  asked  her  whether  she  felt  better.  But  she 
turned  her  face  away.  He  seemed  a  stranger.  Sad- 
ly he  went  out.  It  was  a  poor  beginning  of  her 
bright  voyage.  Night  fell  and  she  seemed  to  feel 
a  little  better.  But  now  she  was  alone.  If  she 
could  have  run  to  her  mother's  arms  she  would  have 
been  good  and  happy,  she  thought,  forever  after- 
ward. But  that  was  impossible — that  was  over — 
all  was  over.  .  .  . 

For  a  long  time  all  was  dark  about  her  and 
within  her.  Then  she  heard  Julian's  hand  fumble 
at  the  door  of  the  state-room  and  she  was  glad  of 
the  sound.  He  touched  the  button  and  turned  on 
the  electric  light.  He  held  awkwardly  a  tray  on 
which  had  been  placed  a  glass  of  milk,  a  plate  of 
sandwiches  and  a  little  heap  of  oranges  and  grapes. 
He  placed  the  tray  on  a  camp-stool  that  he  had 
brought  in  with  great  difficulty,  and  It  was  touching 
to  see  him,  with  such  gravity,  perform  these  unac- 
customed ministrations.  She  sat  up  a  little  and  dis- 
covered that  she  was  really  feeling  better. 

"You  poor  boy.  It's  a  shame  to  put  you  to  all 
that  trouble." 

He  knelt  down  beside  her. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  137 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you're 
better." 

"You  haven't  been  worrying  about  me?" 

"But  to  be  sure,  I  have.  Not  about  your  mat  de 
mer,  but  about  the  black  thoughts." 

"How  did  you  know  about  that?'* 

He  laughed  merrily. 

"It's  not  for  nothing  that  one  tries  one's  hand 
at  writing  stories.  But  now  *It  is  an  order,'  as  Kip.- 
ling  says,  that  you  eat." 

He  supported  her  with  one  hand  and  fed  her 
with  the  other.  It  was  very  childish,  she  knew,  but 
very  charming.  She  decided  that  the  spoils  of  the 
steward's  pantry  must  be  divided.  It  was  a  long 
meal,  but  quite  the  most  delectable  that  she  had  ever 
eaten.  When  it  was  all  over  and  Julian  began  to 
gather  the  plates  and  glass,  she  felt  drowsy.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  for  a  long  time. 

"You're  tired,  my  dear,  and  it's  near  ten  o'clock. 
I'll  go  out  on  deck  and  smoke  another  cigarette  and 
In  the  meantime  you  can  undress  and  go  to  bed." 

She  understood  him  gratefully.  He  did  not  come 
in  until  late,  when,  half  asleep,  she  heard  him  mov- 
ing softly  in  the  berth  above  her. 

When  she  awoke  next  morning  the  steel-bright 
sea,  broken  by  troughs  and  furrows  of  golden  and 


138  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

insufferable  brightness,  glimmered  through  the  win- 
dow. She  noticed  that  Julian  had  already  gone  out, 
and  so  she  arose  and  dressed  herself  comfortably 
and  with  care.  When  she  stepped  on  deck  she  had  to 
close  her  eyes  before  the  exceeding  glory  of  the  im- 
measurable sun-washed  sea  and  sky.  The  whole 
universe  was  flooded  with  gold,  and  straight  into 
the  adorable  warmth  and  sunlight  sailed  the 
smooth-travelling  ship.  Around  the  windy  poop 
came  Julian,  walking  briskly. 

"Good-morning,  sleepy-head.  Breakfast  is  over 
for  an  hour." 

"I  don't  care.    It  isn't  pleasant  below.'* 

"Fve  ordered  the  steward  to  send  you  up  some- 
thing." , 

It  was  a  perfect  day,  from  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
lit morning  to  the  solemn  splendour  of  the  starlit 
night.  The  air  grew  blither  and  warmer  as  the 
hours  passed  on,  and  Frances'  heart  became  jubi- 
lant, for  the  unmistakeable  reality  lay  before  her, 
the  land  of  her  dreams.  She  and  Julian  paid  lit- 
tle attention  to  tlie  other  passengers.  They  had 
much  to  say  to  each  other,  much  to  discover  in  each 
other  during  this  first,  most  intimate  and  less  fleet- 
ing contact — from  his  opinion  on  the  miracles  of 
Christ,  to  the  golden  tone  of  colour  that,  in  certain 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  139 

positions,  flashed  In  her  hair.  And  again,  when 
they  had  watched  the  stars  for  a  tremulous  hour,  he 
let  her  go  to  bed  alone  and  In  peace.  But  he  told 
her  they  must  rise  early  In  the  morning,  to  see 
the  Sequoia  enter  Into  Queenshaven  Bay. 

He  awakened  her  before  five  o'clock  and  she  hur- 
ried on  deck.  The  sea  was  of  the  colour  of  a  dark 
amethyst  broken  by  scarce  perceptible  veins,  deep 
down,  of  a  dull  crimson.  Hand  In  hand  they  stood 
beside  the  railing  as,  at  the  very  break  of  dawn,  the 
ship  floated  Into  the  calm,  dark  waters  of  Queens- 
haven  Bay.  So  gentle  was  the  swell  of  the  har- 
boured waters  that  their  surface  seemed  an  expanse 
of  softly  undulating  silk.  In  the  dusky  sky  burned 
still,  but  with  a  fading  brilliance,  a  clear  moon  and 
a  few  quivering  stars.  The  ship  seemed  scarcely 
to  move,  so  slow  was  Its  progress,  when,  hesitating- 
ly, over  sky  and  harbour,  poured  a  violet  light,  and 
out  of  the  far  dimness  rose  columns  and  steeples 
above  the  darker  mass  of  the  surrounding  city. 
Gradually  the  sky  lost  its  violet  hue,  the  shadows 
of  olive  and  purple  faded,  moon  and  stars  grew 
faint  and  wan,  the  light  was  rosy,  nay,  crimson,  vic- 
torious, sharp,  and  from  Its  centre,  that  seemed  mo- 
mentarily a  pool  of  blood,  leapt  over  wooded  Island 
and  transfigured  sky  the  first  shafts  of  the  liberated 


I40  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

sun,  flung  sudden  fires  upon  the  projecting  rocks 
of  the  break-water  amid  the  sword-play  of  flashing 
little  waves,  and,  flooding  far,  raised  from  the  dusk, 
upon  a  narrow  tongue  of  land  between  two  shining 
rivers,  the  stately  vision  of  a  luminous  city  of  rest. 
The  houses,  as  they  defined  themselves  upon  the 
water-front,  had  all  an  air  of  repose,  reserve  and 
temperate  dignity.  They  had  no  abrupt  angles  or 
grotesque  windows,  the  colour  of  their  walls  was 
soft  and  warm,  but  their  wide  verandahs,  looking 
seaward,  made  them  appear  the  fitting  home  of 
dreams.  And  even  in  that  first  Southern  dawn 
there  came  to  Frances  a  hint  of  that  element  of 
pathos  which,  in  Queenshaven,  accentuated  so  often 
beauty  and  repose.  Many  of  these  stately  houses 
harmonised  so  exquisitely  with  land  and  sea  because 
upon  them  had  fallen  a  gentle  touch  of  decay,  a 
faint  shadow  of  dissolution.  It  had  fallen  upon 
the  swaying  piers  between  which  the  Sequoia  cast 
anchor.  But,  in  a  moment,  Frances  came  to  see 
rather  the  turbulent,  strange  life  before  her.  In 
and  out  of  the  serried  rows  of  cotton-bales  ran  huge 
negroes  In  small,  round  caps  and  open  shirts  reveal- 
ing broad,  black  chests.  They  hallooed  to  each 
Other  with  echoing,  melancholy  calls — deep,  vibrant 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  141 

and  not  unmusical.  The  gang-plank  was  lowered ; 
the  passengers,  in  narrow  file,  poured  down  it  upon 
the  wharf.  A  little  ragged  negro  grasped  Julianas 
valise:  **Tote  dat  foh  you,  sah?" — and  Frances  felt 
that  she  had  come  South. 


XI 


In  the  suave  sunshine  of  that  October  morning 
the  shadows  of  plantain  and  palmetto  fell  upon  the 
white  walls  of  the  Villa  Mercedes.  On  the  veran- 
dah, under  the  graceful  Doric  portico,  stood  tables 
and  delicate  wicker  chairs.  Two  women,  an  older 
and  a  younger,  turned  a  faintly  curious  gaze  upon 
the  newcomers.  The  younger  arose  and  introduced 
herself  to  Julian  as  Mrs.  Pressley,  the  proprietress 
of  the  Villa.  The  rooms  which  they  had  ordered 
were  in  readiness.  Smiling  benignantly  upon  Fran- 
ces, but  without  the  slightest  suggestion  of  profes- 
sional courtesy,  she  introduced  her  to  the  older  lady, 
tall,  thin,  with  severe  lips  but  kindly  eyes,  who  was 
her  aunt,  Miss  St.  Preux.  She  rang  for  a  servant. 
"Show  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ware  their  rooms." 
It  was  the  first  time  that  Frances  had  heard  her- 
self called  Mrs.  Ware,  and  again,  as  at  her  glimpse 
of  the  written  words,  something  within  her,  dim 
and  undefined,  revolted  at  the  deception.  The  re- 
volt was  not  entirely  ethical,  but   of   the   reason. 

14X 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  143 

Why  not  marry  and  end  the  whole  harassing  prob- 
lem If  the  absence  of  the  legal  bond  was  to  be 
scrupulously  concealed?  If  their  lives  were  to  con- 
form with  such  external  precision  to  the  demands 
of  society,  why  should  they  hover  under  the  con- 
stant peril  of  discovery  and  shame?  But  she 
crushed  her  thoughts.  For  a  space,  at  least,  she 
wanted  to  enjoy  without  misgiving — else  all  had 
been  In  vain. 

The  rooms  prepared  for  them  were  charming :  a 
sitting-room  whose  windows  looked  out  upon  the 
endless  blue  of  the  bay,  a  cosy  bed-room  and  bath. 
I^Ight-coloured  furnishings,  light  hangings,  chairs 
delicately  fragile — the  bright  beauty  of  lasting 
Summer  seemed  to  have  stolen  into  these  rooms  to 
abide  there.  She  looked  out  upon  the  gardens,  upon 
the  waters  and  fertile  Islands  beyond,  and  wondered 
how,  with  such  scenes  upon  earth,  people  dared  to 
pass  their  few  years  of  life  in  smoky  cities,  under 
cold  and  pallid  skies.  Beauty  dwelt  here  and  the 
supreme  blessedness  of  silence.  She  stepped  out 
upon  the  little  Iron  balcony  Into  this  world  of  blue 
and  gold.  Julian  followed  her  and  she  leaned 
against  him  In  sudden  gratitude. 

"Oh,  Fm  glad  that  weVe  come  here." 

"We  can  stay  here  until  May,"  he  said;  "It  rare- 


144  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

ly  rains.  All  the  days  are  blue  and  gold,  and  the 
nights — the  nights  are  black  and  silver." 

She  understood  the  throb  in  his  voice.  He  leaned 
over  and  kissed  her  hair  and  throat. 

"Not  here,  Julian." 

She  wanted  to  take  a  walk  and  see  more  of 
Queenshaven  at  once.  But  Julian  suggested  that 
they  must  first  dress  and  have  some  luncheon. 
Laughing,  she  ran  into  the  bedroom  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her.  .  .  . 

They  entered  the  airy  dining-room  some  minutes 
afterward  and  found  places  reserved  for  them  near 
the  head  of  the  long  table.  Mrs.  Pressley's  red- 
dish-brown hair  shone  a  conspicuous  welcome.  At 
her  left  sat  Miss  St.  Preux.  Only  a  few  others 
were  present :  a  stately  woman  of  about  fifty,  with 
sad.  Intelligent,  brown  eyes;  her  husband,  a  mili- 
tary-looking nonentity,  and  a  fair,  excessively  slen- 
der youth  with  cat-like  delicacy  and  grace  of  man- 
ner. Frances  and  Julian  were  Introduced  succes- 
sively to  all  present.  The  fair  youth  seemed  to 
dominate  the  Intermittent  conversation. 

"At  luncheon  only  the  faithful  are  present,"  he 
said,  with  an  Instructive  air.  "The  profane,  how- 
ever, swarm  to  dine." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  145 

"Then,  Mr.  Held,"  said  the  brown-eyed  woman. 
"I  am  surprised  at  your  presence." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  thought  It  your  principle  never  to  be 
faithful." 

"In  matters  of  no  importance,"  he  returned, 
"one  can  afford  to  be  faithful.  In  things  that  mat- 
ter faithfulness  means  stagnation  and  death." 

"You  are  a  heretic  to  all  your  doctrines  to-day. 
Since  when  do  you  admit  that  anything  matters?" 

"Absolutely  nothing  does;  relatively,  things  do — 
in  so  far  as  they  are  pleasurable  or  painful." 

"To  you,  you  mean." 

"Precisely." 

"What  do  you  think  of  such  doctrines,  Mrs. 
Ware?"  asked  Miss  St.  Preux. 

"They  seem  very  self-regarding." 

"Ah,  that  is  just  it,"  Held  almost  sighed;  "noth- 
ing is  beautiful  that  is  not  cruel.  I  am  sure  that 
you  are  cruel,  Mrs.  Ware." 

He  looked  at  her  with  large,  velvety  blue  eyes. 

"Had  you  not  better  reserve  your  opinions?" 
Julian  said  angrily. 

"Oh,  you  must  pay  no  attention  to  Mr.  Held's 
paradoxes,"  broke  In  Mrs.  Pressley;  "he  only 
means  to  be  amusing." 


146  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Held  threw  down  his  napkin  with  the  air  of  a 
spoilt  child. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Pressley,  don't  attempt  to  define 
me  or  my  efforts.  All  that  is  quite  beyond  you, 
quite." 

The  rudeness  of  his  speech  seemed  to  silence  the 
company.  When  Julian  and  Frances  arose  to  go 
Miss  St.  Preux  asked: 

"Are  you  going  to  look  at  Queenshaven  ?" 

"Yes,"  Julian  replied. 

"I  hope  you  will  like  it,  and  don't  form  an  opin- 
ion too  quickly.  The  real  Queenshaven  which 
those  find  who  are  worthy  is  very  lovely." 

The  old  lady  seemed  moved,  and  Frances  said 
impulsively : 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  love  it.  It  seems  too  good  to 
be  true  after  New  York." 

"Ah,  yes;  I  am  told  that  New  York  is  very  large 
and  very  ugly,  as  is  natural  from  the  influences  that 
have  made  it  what  it  is.    I  have  never  been  there." 

Frances  felt  that  she  liked  Miss  St.  Preux  better 
than  anyone  else  here.  She  took  the  old  lady's  out- 
stretched hand  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

They  walked  through  hushed  streets  full  of  gar- 
dens that  showed  scarcely  a  sign  of  Winter.  Trees, 
lawns  and  flower-beds  were  subdued  to  quiet  tints. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  147 

Here  and  there,  in  the  lower  city,  stood  houses  of 
the  Georgian  period — faintly  and  beautifully  old. 
The  effect  of  the  whole  was  one  of  gentleness  and 
peace,  but  also  of  quiet  high-breeding.  The  eigh- 
teenth-century conception  of  classic  elegance  and 
propriety  lingered  In  the  sunny  porticos  of  many 
houses.  This,  Indeed,  seemed  to  Julian  on  that  first 
morning  the  distinctive  note  of  all  that  was  most 
characteristic  here:  an  English,  eighteenth-century 
sense  of  dignity  and  of  reserved  grace.  Whatever 
was  new  (and  there  was  much)  seemed  In  very 
shame  to  have  shed  the  crude  glare  of  Its  modernity 
and  to  have  melted  Into  the  temperate  comeliness 
of  the  general  effect.  Not  a  few  of  the  residences  on 
La  Roche  Street  and  Court  House  Street  were  suffi- 
ciently handsome,  but  they  exhibited  none  of  that 
impudent  glitter  of  wealth  which  disfigures  the  bet- 
ter portion  of  American  cities.  The  cleanliness  and 
comfort  of  the  rare  tram-cars,  the  comparative  ab-- 
sence  of  the  motor-car  pest,  added  to  the  city's  air 
of  dignity;  and  above  all,  the  city — so  much  a  sen- 
sitive eye  could  make  out  soon  enough — ^was  aware 
of  itself,  of  its  historic  past,  of  its  present  difference 
from  so  much  in  American  life  that  is  crude  and  de- 
testable.    And  that  self-conscigusness,  serene  but 


148  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

not  obtrusive,  was  perhaps  its  last  and  crowning 
grace. 

Frances  reasoned  about  none  of  these  things. 
Her  individual  perceptions  blended  into  a  rich  sense 
of  well-being  and  love.  She  was  quite  sure  that 
she  would  care  for  Queenshaven  immensely;  that 
here,  too,  if  at  all,  one  might  attain  spiritual  certi- 
tude and  peace.  She  knew  that  she  had  neither, 
and  that.  In  spite  of  her  well-being,  she  was  not 
perfectly  happy.  It  seemed  to  her  that  complete 
happiness  demanded  a  sense  of  its  own  endurance 
in  the  knowledge  that  the  source  from  which  It 
springs  is  perennial,  that  it  could  never  exist  side 
by  side  with  these  constant  repressions  of  troubling 
thought  which  her  tortured  soul  made  necessary. 
She  wondered  whether  Julian  felt  that  too,  but  she 
could  not  tell.  For  the  moment  he  was  completely 
wrapt  in  the  external  charm  about  them. 

They  wandered  on  to  King  Street,  a  long,  narrow 
thoroughfare  on  which  the  principal  shops  of  the 
town  were  situated.  But  here  distinctive  features 
of  the  city  grew  less  salient.  Standing  before  the 
windpw  of  a  jewelry  shop,  they  saw  Held.  He 
turned  and  came  to  meet  them. 

"You  are  looking  at  Queenshaven?    She's  a  coy 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  149 

old  beauty  with  a  prodigious  stomacher  and  bare 
shoulders." 

"That's  true,  and  yet  your  tone  makes  it  de- 
testably false,"  said  Julian. 

"Are  you  succumbing  to  her  antique  allure- 
ment?" 

"Yes,  and  I'm  rather  glad  to  do  so.  If  you  do 
not,  why  are  you»here?" 

The  blue  eyes  suddenly  looked  much  older. 

"There's  less  here  that  rasps  on  me  than  else- 
where. So  I  retire  to  Queenshaven  from  time  to 
time — to  rest." 

Julian  looked  closely  at  the  other  man. 

"Are  you  Arthur  Langdon  Held?" 

"Yes." 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  a  celebrity,"  said 
Frances. 

"A  celebrity — such  as  they  are  at  present.  If 
Mr.  Ware  did  not  in  some  way  practise  literature 
he  would  not  know  of  my  verses." 

"True."    Julian's  voice  was  dry. 

Held  smiled  a  curious,  self-conscious  smile. 

"I  must  be  off,  but  we  will  meet  at  dinner." 

Julian  seemed  irritated. 

"The  man  has  prodigious  gifts,  but  everything 


ISO  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

he  docs  Is  false  and  rotten  at  the  core.    And  that 
seems  the  way  at  present  of  our  most  gifted  men." 

''It  is  not  true  of  your  work." 

"Mine — my  dear?  Let's  not  talk  of  It.  I,  at 
all  events,  have  you." 

"But  what  Is  the  trouble  with  your  work?  You 
have  never  really  told  me." 

"Fm  shy  about  It — even  to  you.  The  truth  seems 
to  be  that  I  matured  late  and  that  my  faculty  Is  not 
a  rich  or  happy  one.  I  write  slowly  and  with  infi- 
nite pains,  and  what's  more,  IVe  never  had  any  en^ 
couragement,  which  makes  continued  production 
doubly  hard.  My  work  Is  unpopular;  It  Is  sombre, 
pessimistic,  if  you  will." 

"And  can't  I  help  you?" 
'     "By  being  what  you  are,  dearest;  not  by  doing 
anything." 

"Ah,  you  rate  me  very  low." 

"On  the  contrary:  life  Is  infinitely  more  Impor- 
tant than  literature,  beauty  Is  better  than  style,  your 
charm  is  far  above  singing." 

He  seemed  to  fall  Into  troubled  thought 

"Look  at  this  fellow,  Held !  I'm  twice  the  man 
that  he  Is  in  essential  power,  knowledge.  Insight. 
But  his  easy  accomplishment,  his  smooth  workman- 
ship— all  that's  beyond  me." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  151 

She  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

"Ah,  sweetheart/'  he  cried,  "isn't  it  a  black 
shame  to  be  annoyed  by  such  things  to-day,  of  all 
days?     And,  ultimately,  It  really  doesn't  matter." 

She  was  sorry  that  he  should  think  so  meanly  of 
his  talents,  but  she  was  happy  that  he  seemed  to 
subordinate  his  work  to  her.  And  she  nursed  this 
monstrous  delusion  with  care. 

They  turned  back  to  the  sun-washed  gardens  of 
the  South  and  the  soft  romance  of  the  city  came 
again  upon  them.  Julian  tossed  pennies  to  ragged 
little  negroes  on  the  curb  who  waved  small,  bat- 
tered caps  and  showed  rows  of  gleaming  teeth. 
They  had  returned  to  their  holiday  mood  of  simple 
happiness. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  Villa  Mercedes 
Julian  said  that  he  had  a  few  notes  to  write,  and 
Frances  accepted  Miss  St.  Preux's  invitation  to  sit 
with  her  on  the  verandah.  From  there  the  waters 
of  the  bay,  doubly  enchanted,  could  be  seen  only  in 
long  blue  and  gold  streaks  through  the  trees  of  the 
garden  that  separated  the  Villa  from  the  stone 
parapet  of  the  shore.  Frances  felt  uncomfortable, 
as  If  she  owed  some  account  of  herself  to  the  tall, 
old  lady  who  seemed  to  glare  at  her  through  strong 
glasses.     She    wondered    what    Miss    St.   Preux 


152'  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

thought  of  her,  whether  there  was  anything  in  her 
manner  that  betrayed  the  unusualness  of  the  situa- 
tion. She  tried  In  vain  to  reassure  herself.  The 
hesitancy  of  her  manner  was  unconquerable.  Held 
came  in  through  the  garden  and  sat  down  on  the 
steps.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  passed  his  hand 
lightly  over  his  silky,  blond  hair.  His  eyes  were 
bluer  and  more  naif  than  ever. 

"I'm  going  away,'*  he  announced  calmly. 

"Again?"  asked  Miss  St.  Preux. 

"Actually,  this  time.  I'm  satiated  with  blue  and 
gold.  I  shall  go  slumming  in  New  York  and  see 
horrible  poverty  and  beautifully  frightful  disease. 
It  will  be  beatific — after  this." 

He  looked  at  Frances  as  if  about  to  make  an  ex- 
periment. 

"Last  time  I  dived  into  Broome  Street  I  saw  a 
man  whose  face  was  so  eaten  away  by — " 

"Spare  us  the  details,  Mr.  Held,"  said  Miss  St. 
Preux,  severely;  "we  do  not  share  your  taste." 

"I  am  sure  Mrs.  Ware  was  interested." 

"She  was  not  I"  the  old  woman  snapped. 

Frances  looked  at  her  gratefully  as  Held  stepped 
lightly  into  the  house. 

"I  try  not  to  take  umbrage  at  his  remarks,"  said 
Miss  St.  Preux,  "merely  for  Susie's  sake — that's 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  153 

Mrs.  Pressley — ^but  he  is  a  disgusting  little  cad. 
Artistic  temperament  or  no  artistic  temperament, 
he  could  not  have  crossed  the  threshold  of  any  good 
house  in  Queenshaven  twenty  years  ago." 

For  some  reason  not  easily  definable,  Frances 
felt  aggrieved. 

"Mr.  Ware  is  an  artist,  too." 

"Eh?    But  he  seems  to  be  a  gentleman." 

The  tone  was  harsh. 

"Seems,  Miss  St.  Preux?"  Frances  burst  out. 

"Sit  down,  young  lady.  I  hadn't  the  least  in- 
tention of  speaking  slightingly  of  Mr.  Ware.  But 
that  is  the  way  of  you  shy  people.  Suddenly  you 
flash  out." 

She  laid  her  hand  with  a  very  kindly  pressure  on 
Frances'  arm. 

"Do  I  seem  shy?" 

"Very,"  the  old  woman  returned.  "And  it  is 
vexing  to  be  shy.  I  was  similarly  afflicted  in  my 
youth ;  but  I  had  an  old  aunt  on  my  father's  side,  a 
gentlewoman  of  the  oldest  Carolinian  stock,  who 
gave  me  some  invaluable  advice.  *My  dear,'  she 
said,  *have  self-confidence  I  Have  presence  I  A 
young  woman  who  lacks  that,  lacks  everything. 
And  when  you  are  about  to  enter  a  room  full  of 
people  and  feel  bashful,  fold  your  hands  and  say: 


154  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"O  God,  help  me  to  remember  that  I  am  Miss  St. 
Preux!"  I  have  found  such  ejaculatory  prayers 
most  helpful.'  " 

Frances  laughed,  throwing  back  her  head. 

"And  did  you  find  the  practice  effective?" 

"As  you  see." 

The  dressing  bell  for  dinner  rang  and  Frances 
hurried  upstairs. 

Dinner  was  long  and  formal;  the  conversation 
insignificant.  Held  sat  next  to  the  brown-eyed' 
woman,  whose  white,  well-preserved  arms  he  took 
every  opportunity  of  brushing  with  his  hand.  Mrs. 
Pressley  was  voluble  in  a  perfunctory  way.  The 
newcomers  said  little,  but  seemed  Intent  on  their 
own  affairs.  Julian  was  in  good  spirits  and  whis- 
pered endearing  nothings  to  Frances,  whose  arms 
and  shoulders  gleamed  as  of  silvery  silk  above  her 
darker  dress.  As  for  her,  she  liked  the  dignified 
propriety  of  the  meal.  She  had  hardly  ever  before 
dined  in  evening-dress,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
indeed  living  In  the  great  world.  But  she  could  not 
eat  much.  A  strange,  sweet  tremour  shook  her  at 
intervals.  Her  body  was  aware  of  what  her  soul 
chose  not  yet  to  dwell  upon.  Julian,  too,  ate  spar- 
ingly, but  under  his  curved  lids  his  eyes  glowed 
with    a    changeful    fire.     After    dinner,    Frances 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  155 

lingered  yet  a  moment  with  Miss  St.  Preux.   Then 
she  followed  Julian  to  their  rooms. 

A  small  hanging-lamp  of  crimson  glass  provided 
the  only  Illumination;  It  swung  from  the  ceiling 
of  the  bedchamber.  The  sitting-room  was  dark, 
except  for  the  faint  radiance  of  the  amber  moon, 
which  could  be  seen  through  the  window,  resting 
apparently,  upon  the  smooth,  dark  waters.  Over 
and  around  it  spread  the  troops  of  quiet  stars.  For 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  Frances  saw  them  clearly, 
and  saw  their  unperturbed  shining  over  the  storms 
of  human  passion.  Then  the  unspeakably  sweet 
mystery  of  life  called  her.  Julian's  arms  were 
about  her,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  sob,  as  he  said : 
"At  last."  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
deeply,  steadily,  and  some  subtle  current  passed  be- 
tween them  and  shook  them  until  they  trembled  like 
grass.  Nearer  he  leaned,  and  nearer,  and  their  lips 
seemed  never  to  part.  .  .  .  Thought  seemed  to  re- 
turn to  him  first.  He  opened  his  arms  and  she  ran 
into  the  sleeping-chamber.  He  stepped  out  on  the 
balcony  and  smoked  a  cigarette  to  soothe  the  thun- 
derous beating  of  his  heart.  Then  he  went  in  and 
drew  down  the  shades  over  the  windows.  .  .  .  He 
found  Frances  standing  under  the  crimson  lamp. 
Her  hair  fell  about  her  like  a  mantle;  her  white 


156  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

night-gown  made  her  seem  slim  and  frail,  and  she 
tried  to  conceal  her  small,  bare  feet  in  its  folds. 
He  came  toward  her  slowly  and  reverently,  as  to  a 
vision  of  divine  grace.  She  dropped  her  hands, 
swayed  toward  him,  and  his  lips  were  upon  her 
breast.  .  .  , 


XII 


They  were  alone  together  in  the  days  of  pure 
sunlight  or  rare,  swift  rain;  in  aromatic,  purple 
nights,  spangled  with  trembling  stars.  The  world 
and  its  noises  could  not  reach  them  upon  their  alti- 
tude of  passionate  enchantment,  and  men  and 
women  became  to  their  centred  vision  mere  irrele- 
vant marionettes.  The  weather  was  so  mild  that 
she  could  often  dress  in  white,  and  those  were  their 
days  of  completest  union,  since  Julian  loved  the 
crispness  and  fresh  odour  of  starched  linen,  that 
blended  with  the  faint,  sweet  scent  of  the  warm 
flesh  beneath.  His  senses  were  of  an  endless  curi- 
osity, his  desires  subtly  varied ;  he  knew  the  ecstasy 
of  denial  no  less  than  that  of  union;  and  she,  in 
her  flexible  youthfulness,  became  an  instrument  that 
gradually  sounded,  with  complete  and  immediate 
harmony,  each  lightly  touched  chord.  Then  he 
taught  her  that  love  is  not  a  monotony  of  indul- 
gence; that  it  has  its  reticences,  its  hours  of  tense 
cahn,  its  infinitely  subtle  interplay   of   mysterious 

«S7 


158  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

forces,  no  less  than  its  fierce  storms.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  in  these  weeks  she  became  aware  of  a 
wholly  new  world.  How  faint  were  the  things, 
and  uncomely,  that  she  had  suspected  in  her  vir- 
ginal ignorance!  Innumerable  new  perceptions 
crowded  upon  her  as  she  felt  the  vibrations  upon 
her  nerves  of  the  complex  symphony  of  love.  .  .  . 
Julian  had  brought  a  boxful  of  books,  and  in 
the  morning  they  usually  read  together.  He  pre- 
ferred verse  in  these  days,  as  more  consonant  with 
his  mood,  reading  to  her  Rossetti's  sonorous  son- 
nets with  a  broad  insistence  upon  their  deep  vowel- 
music.  He  tried  one  morning  to  read  her  his  fa- 
vourite passages  of  Wordsworth,  but  his  voice 
trailed  off  into  silence.  The  austere  clarity  of  the 
great  verses  seemed  like  a  rebuke.  They  had  been 
up  late  the  night  before  and  she  was  tired.  Drow- 
sily her  head  leaned  upon  his  shoulder,  her  soft  hair 
touched  his  neck,  and  her  breath  his  cheek.  From 
her  body,  clad  in  a  light  morning-gown,  arose  a 
troubling  scent  of  perfume.  A  dimness  came  over 
his  eyes,  and  the  hand  in  which  he  held  the  volume 
of  Wordsworth  trembled.  He  removed  her  head 
gently  from  its  resting-place  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  rooms.  She  followed  his  steps  from  un- 
der half-closed  lids.    During  the  last  weeks  she  had 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  159 

grown  plumper,  and  as  she  reclined  there,  half- 
asleep,  her  round  neck  and  bosom  partly  exposed, 
she  seemed  to  him  to  exhale  an  air  of  mere  satisfied 
instinct. 

'Trances,  would  you  care  to  go  out?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  a  little  wider. 

"No;  I'm  so  sleepy." 

"Oh,  you  can  sleep  In  the  afternoon.  Come  now; 
it's  cool  and  clear  outside." 

She  was  querulous  with  drowsiness. 

"Please  leave  me  alone,  Julian.  You  know  Fm 
tired." 

More  luxuriously  she  nestled  Into  her  chair.  She 
closed  her  eyes,  and  to  his  strained  nerves  It  seemed 
that  her  face,  in  this  somnolent  repose,  was  almost 
stupid.     Its  relaxation  Irritated  him. 

"I  wish  you  would  rouse  yourself,  Frances.  It 
strikes  me  that  youVe  tired  very  often  when  I  ask 
you  to  do  anything  sensible." 

She  sat  up. 

"Whose  fault  Is  it?" 

"Yours !  You  seem  gradually  to  be  losing  every 
activity,  every  sane  interest." 

"One  is  hardly  Inclined  to  sane  activities  when 
one  Is  a  man's  mistress." 

She  could  have  struck  herself  for  uttering  the 


i6o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

words,  so  foolish  and  vulgar  they  seemed  to  her 
ear.  But  why  would  he  not  let  her  rest?  She  w^ j 
tired — oh,  so  tired ! 

"My  dear,"  he  said  coldly,  "you  are  evidently 
not  In  a  fit  state  this  morning  to  discuss  anything.'* 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  gloves  and  went  out. 

She  felt  only  an  Immense  relief  at  his  departure. 
Now  she  could  sleep,  and  every  fibre  of  her  body 
seemed  to  cry  out  for  deep  and  dreamless  rest. 
With  eyes  half  closed,  she  went  Into  the  sleeping- 
chamber,  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  forgot  all 
things.  It  was  near  noon  when  she  awoke,  and  her 
first  memory  was  of  the  ugly  and  violent  words  she 
had  spoken.  She  could  not  account  for  them.  True, 
she  had  been  desperately  sleepy  and  angry  at  being 
disturbed.  But  this  would  hardly  explain  so  strange 
a  thing.  The  more  she  thought,  the  coarser  and 
more  hateful  the  saying  seemed.  She  hoped  that 
Julian  had  forgotten,  but  she  could  not  believe  that 
he  had.  It  was  just  such  a  remark  as  her  mother 
would  have  made,  and  she  wondered  whether  In  her, 
too,  slept  the  seeds  of  acerbity,  unreason  and  vio- 
lence. She  took  the  cold  bath  for  which  in  the  morn- 
ing she  had  been  too  weary,  and  dressed  herself  in  a 
graceful,  dark  frock.  She  looked  at  herself  In  the 
mirror   of   the   dressing-table   and   was   satisfied. 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  i6i 

Every  trace  of  listlessness  and  lassitude  had 
passed. 

Just  before  it  was  time  for  luncheon,  Julian  came 
in  with  alert  step.  He  was  in  better  spirits  than  he 
had  been  for  some  days,  but  he  hardly  looked  at 
her. 

"I've  been  out  walking  with  Held,"  he  an- 
nounced briskly.  **The  fellow  may  be  a  cad,  but  he 
certainly  knows  his  business.  WeVe  been  talking 
shop,  and  he's  been  giving  me  some  hints  on  short- 
story  technique.  I  think  I  can  develop  an  idea 
which  has  been  bothering  me  a  long  time.  I  never, 
somehow,  could  find  the  inevitable  form  that  it  must 
take." 

He  started  off  to  wash  his  hands  and  face. 

"Time  for  luncheon,  I  suppose,  and  I'm 
hungry.'* 

She  was  hurt — foolishly,  no  doubt — that  he  had 
not  noticed  the  change  in  her  and  that  he  had  not 
kissed  her.  She  was  hurt — and  this  seemed  almost 
monstrous  to  her — that  he  had  forgotten  their  scene 
that  morning.  She  had  been  prepared  to  admit 
herself  in  the  wrong,  to  be  kissed  and  petted  and 
forgiven.  And  the  matter  had  been  of  so  little  im- 
port to  him  that  he  had  not,  in  all  probability, 
given  it  a  second  thought.    Nor  did  he  now  remark 


1 62  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

upon  her  silence.  "  During  luncheon  he  was  pre- 
occupied, and  Held  looked  at  him,  half-humour- 
ously,  with  his  glittering,  blue  eyes. 

Julian  had  scarcely  swallowed  his  last  bite  when 
he  hurried  away.  He  looked  at  her  hesitatingly 
just  for  a  second. 

"I  shall  try  to  do  some  work  this  afternoon, 
Frances." 

She  nodded,  but  found  It  difficult  to  keep  her  self- 
possession.  She  felt  herself  suddenly  dismissed, 
abandoned,  and  shut  out  from  his  life.  And,  to  her 
shame,  the  wide,  blue  eyes  across  the  table,  uncan- 
nily Intelligent,  seemed  to  understand  the  situation 
perfectly.  She  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork  and 
declined  some  fruit  which  the  woman  with  the  mel- 
ancholy, brown  eyes  held  out  to  her.  The  smallest 
morsel  would  have  strangled  her  now. 

After  luncheon  she  went  out  on  the  verandah 
and  gazed  seaward  through  a  blur  of  foolish  tears. 
She  had  not  the  instant  self-command  of  a  woman 
living  under  unaltering  social  constraint,  and  Held, 
loitering  here,  detected  the  tears  In  her  eyes.  He 
laid  his  firm,  white  hand  lightly  upon  her  arm. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Ware,  there  are  facts  which  It 
is  quite  fatal  to  rebel  against.  They  are  of  such  sur- 
prising sohdity.    And,  after  all,  why  should  you?" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  163 

She  had  not  the  social  adroitness  to  repel  his 
impertinence.  His  voice  was  naturally  high  and 
shrill,  but  he  knew  how  to  restrain  and  modulate  it. 

"A  woman,"  he  continued,  "who  has  no  rival 
but  a  man's  art  Is,  as  the  world  goes,  lucky  enough." 

She  was  too  interested  to  be  discreet,  and  his 
words  had  a  temperate  reasonableness  which  ap- 
pealed to  her.  A  man  who  brought  this  disinter- 
ested spirit  to  such  problems  could  be  trusted. 

"No  doubt  you  are  right,"  she  said,  "but  the 
first  perception  hurts,  for  all  that." 

Something  not  unlike  pity  subdued  the  blue  eyes. 

"How  inexperienced  you  are  to  be  surprised  and 
hurt.     Didn't  you  expect  it?" 

"No." 

In  spite  of  herself  her  lip  trembled. 

He  drew  up  a  couple  of  wicker-chairs  and  they 
sat  down. 

"May  I  smoke?" 

She  nodded. 

"We  try  to  live  our  dreams,"  he  said  softly, 
"and  we  always  fail.  The  artist  alone  succeeds.  In 
a  measure,  and  will  not  barter  his  dream-life  for 
beauty  or  wealth  or  love." 

"Not  even  for  love?" 

"Least  of  all ;  for  if  he  gives  his  art  for  the  sake 


1 64  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

of  love,  the  gift  is  irrevocable.  He  may  appear  to 
sacrifice  his  art;  he  may  persuade  himself,  in  some 
brief  hour,  that  he  can  sacrifice  it.  But  he  can- 
not." 

"Not  even  to  his — ^wife?" 
,  "No;  but  his  wife  can  still  be  measurably  happy 
since  he  returns  to  her  at  the  call  of  deep  instincts, 
social  and  personal."  The  blue  eyes  flickered 
strangely.  "But  let  us  pity  the  poor  woman  who 
must  hold  him  without  acknowledged  claims  1" 

She  felt  herself  growing  white  under  that  gaze 
that  seemed  to  read  her  soul.  And  his  words  were 
of  such  sad  sincerity  that  fear  of  her  whole  fate 
overmastered  her.  She  wanted  to  escape.  But 
again  he  laid  his  light  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Why  should  you  disturb  him  at  his  work?  It 
will  only  make  things  worse." 

She  sank  back  into  her  chair.  His  eyes  looked 
dreamily  over  the  waters. 

"There  is  nothing  so  pitiless  as  the  love  of 
woman.  It  gives  us  much,  but  it  would  withhold 
the  one  thing  which  we  dare  not  lack — the  undis- 
turbed life  of  our  own  soul.  If  you  leave  Ware 
alone,  he  will  love  you  in  the  hours  which  he  can 
give  to  love ;  if  you  rob  him  of  peace  In  the  hours 
which  he  must  not  give,  he  will  hate  you." 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  165 

She  turned  her  face  away  and  the  low  voice  at 
her  side  continued: 

"The  man  who  does  not  marry  the  woman  he 
loves  .  .  .  invites  his  doom.  Were  he  to  marry 
her,  she  would  not  suffer  the  fever  to  possess  him 
wholly  at  every  moment.  Her  hold  upon  him 
would  be  of  an  ultimate  security  and  she  would  not 
rob  him  and  herself  of  peace.  I  am  infinitely  care- 
less of  society  and  its  claims ;  I  acknowledge  no  law 
but  the  law  of  my  needs ;  but  I  would  not  dare  to 
live  with  a  woman  and  not  marry  her.  No  legal 
bonds  are  of  such  crushing  fierceness,  no  convention 
is  so  throttling,  as  these  lawless  fetters.  If  one  is 
married  one  can  at  least — get  a  divorce." 

It  took  all  her  power  of  self-control  to  speak 
with  impersonal  calm. 

"And  this  is  your  defence  of  marriage?" 

"It  Is.  You  think  It  a  defence  upon  low  grounds? 
Dear  lady,  what  is  low,  what  is  high?  One  must 
live  with  the  least  possible  friction.  Practise  that 
and  you  will  be  happy  as  I  am." 

"Are  you  happy?" 

His  smile  was  radiant. 

"Perfectly." 

There  seemed  to  her  something  repulsive  in  his 
brilliant  gracefulness  and  his  blue  eyes.    And  yet, 


1 66;  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

it  was  with  an  effort  that  she  arose.  He  opened 
the  door  for  her  and  she  passed  into  the  house. 
Then,  suddenly,  his  words  smote  upon  her.  Was 
she,  to  any  extent,  in  this  man's  power?  Surely  he 
was  unscrupulous.  She  would  tell  Julian  and  they 
might  go  away.  The  old  cry  arose  to  her  lips: 
* 'How  difficult  life  is,  how  difficult.  .  .  ." 

She  was  a  little  dazed  by  all  she  had  heard. 
It  revealed  to  her  her  own  piteous  inexperience  of 
the  problems  of  personal  intimacy  between  men  and 
women.  She  had  never  dreamed  that  such  an  in- 
timacy raised  any  problems  but  purely  external  ones. 
To  love,  to  be  beloved — was  not  that  a  sufficient 
basis  for  enduring  content?  It  must  be,  she 
thought,  in  spite  of  Held's  subtleties,  that  "love  is 
enough."  The  region  of  a  delicate  and  largely  in- 
tellectual adjustment  of  relationship,  which  he  had 
opened  to  her,  seemed  unspeakably  repulsive,  cold 
and  ungenerous.  She  and  Julian,  who  truly  loved 
each  other,  had  no  need  of  such  repressions  and 
artifices. 

She  found  him  engrossed  in  his  task  at  the  small 
desk  in  the  sitting-room.  Despite  her  rebellion 
against  Held's  advice,  she  hesitated  to  disturb  him, 
but  once  more  with  a  feeling  of  loneliness  went  out 
on  the  narrow  balcony.     The  scarlet  glare  of  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  167 

sun  had  just  dipped  behind  the  purple  line  of  the 
low,  wooded  Islands  that  hemmed  the  bay,  but  his 
rays,  of  an  unearthly  roslness  of  colour,  Illumined 
huge  masses  of  white  clouds  towering  above  the 
horizon.  Frances  watched  the  drifting  dreamland 
of  the  argent  clouds,  which  now  seemed  a  visionary 
city  with  rosy  cupolas  and  soaring  spires,  and  now, 
shifting  its  formation,  a  range  of  happy  mountains 
where  rose  and  silver  peaks  led  Into  Paradise.  But 
the  earth  turned  its  face  more  and  more  from  the 
glowing  west,  the  clouds  grew  dim  and  ominous 
and  leaden,  and  she  was  afraid  that  from  her  own 
life  its  brief  radiance  would  fade.  She  wanted  to 
be  loved  and  comforted  and  reassured. 

She  went  to  Julian  and  bent  over  him. 

"When  will  it  be  finished?' 

He  restrained  a  movement  of  impatience. 

"Finished?  Why,  Fm  working  at  the  first  out- 
line." 

"But  youVe  done  enough  for  to-day.  Come; 
Fm  so  lonely." 

He  bit  his  lip,  but  arose. 

"Fll  rest  a  bit,  but  I  must  get  back  to  It  while  I 
have  a  grip  on  It." 

He  sat  down  In  an  easy-chair  and  stared  into  the 
room  before  him  while  the  dark  drifted  slowly  in. 


i68  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  came  and  nesded  to  his  side.  His  hands 
seemed  cold  and  she  pressed  them  close  to  her 
bosom.  Then  she  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and 
was  content.  She  had  been  so  lonely  and  sick  at 
heart  that  it  was  wonderfully  sweet  to  be  thus  en- 
compassed by  his  presence,  and  she  crept  still  nearer 
to  him.  Thus  they  sat  in  the  dusk  and  the  tingling 
silence.  Suddenly  he  drew  his  hands  away  and 
arose,  and  even  in  the  dim  light  of  the  room  she 
could  now  discern  a  strange  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"Frances,'*  he  said,  and  his  anger  seemed  to 
choke  him,  "you  must  not  tempt  me  when  Tm  try- 
ing to  work.  There  are  other  things  in  the 
world  .    .    ." 

"I  never  meant  to " 

"It  does  not  matter  what  you  meant.  The  result 
is  the  same.  When  I  am  at  work  I  do  not  wish  to 
be  disturbed.  You  used  not  to  be  so  devoid  of  in- 
tellectual resources.  Can't  you  employ  yourself 
for  a  while?" 

She  was  overwhelmed  by  his  cold  rage  and  the 
harshness  of  his  words,  but  she  understood  now — 
so  well,  so  tragically  well. 

"Julian,  whatever  I  had  done  you  would  not 
use  that  tone  to  me  if  I  were  your  wife.  It  is  bit- 
terly unjust,  it  is  horrible  and  wicked  of  youi  to 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  169 

make  me  suffer  for  the  sin  which  I  committed  for 
your  sake." 

He  looked  at  her  hopelessly. 

**If  you  can  explain  to  me  any  conceivable  con- 
nection between  my  not  wishing  to  be  disturbed  at 
my  work  and  our  being  married  or  not,  I  should 
be  obliged." 

"It  is  not  that,  but  your  whole  attitude  shows 
that  you  don't  respect  me.  And  the  reason  is,  of 
course,  that  we  are  not  married." 

*'I  thought  you  had  rid  yourself  of  these  intoler- 
able follies.     Do  you  respect  me?" 

*'Surely." 

*'Well,  I  am  not  your  husband.  You  are  not  my 
wife  and  still  I  respect  you.  Respect  is  given  to  a 
human  personality,  not  to  an  official  status." 

"And  do  you  think  it  quite  the  same  for  both  of 
us?" 

"Quite." 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"It  isn't,  Julian;  it  isn't.  I  don't  know  why  or 
how,  but  I  feel  it  clearly." 

"You  are  simply  rooted  in  the  vulgar  officialisms 
and  domesticities  of  the  bourgeois  class." 

"Would  I  have  come  with  you  if  that  were 
true?" 


170  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"Such  cases  have  been  known.  But  I  thought 
you  were  different.    I  am  sorry  and  disappointed." 

He  settled  down  again  at  the  desk  and  did  not 
look  up  when  the  dinner-bell  rang.  For  a  while  the 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece  ticked  horribly  through 
the  silence.    Then  he  turned  around. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  dinner?" 

"Alone?" 

"And  for  Heaven's  sake,  why  not?  If  I  happen 
not  to  be  hungry  .  .  .  ?  We  are  not  galley-slaves, 
tied  to  the  same  oar." 

She  was  herself  anything  but  hungry,  yet  she 
thought  it  wiser  not  to  resist.  She  dressed  and  went 
downstairs.  Miss  St.  Preux,  who  sat  next  to  her  at 
table  to-day,  looked  at  her  frequently. 

"You  look  pale,  Mrs.  Ware.  Are  you  not 
well?" 

The  voice  was  warmly  sympathetic,  full  of 
womanly  kindness,  and  Frances  looked  up  grate- 
fully. 

"No;  I  don't  think  I  am  well." 

The  old  lady  saw  the  distressed  look  in  her 
neighbour's  eyes  and  divined  much. 

"Come  and  sit  with  me  awhile  after  dinner,"  she 
said. 


XIII 

Miss  St.  Preux  was  not  a  garrulous  person,  but 
to-night  she  talked  in  a  clear,  thin  stream  of  kindly 
anecdote  and  gossip  to  the  young  woman  by  her 
side.  The  moral  which,  with  unexpected  lightness 
of  touch,  she  insinuated,  was  that  by  forbearance, 
by  forgiveness,  by  believing  the  best,  and  trusting, 
even  when  to  trust  seems  foolish — that  by  these 
things  alone  the  rare  miracle  of  human  content  is 
compassed.  She  spoke  of  her  own  brilliant  youth, 
of  the  desolation  suddenly  wrought  by  the  war,  of 
descending  from  the  sheltered  heights  of  wealth 
and  distinction  to  earn  a  living  by  her  needle;  she 
spoke  of  patience,  of  renunciation,  of  the  sustaining 
power  of  a  conscious  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 
And  it  seemed  to  Frances  that  beside  the  immacu- 
late flame  of  this  noble  and  simple  spirit,  her  own 
life  stood  out  tarnished  and  ignoble.  She  felt  her- 
self rebuked  and  touched  when,  near  ten  o'clock, 
Miss  St.  Preux  passed  a  caressing,  old  hand  over 

her  cheek  and  bade  her  good-night. 

171 


172  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

There  was  a  vague  stirring  in  her  as  of  some- 
thing that  called  for  light  and  dominance.  She  was 
dissatisfied  with  herself  and  her  future^ — that 
golden  future  of  which  she  had  dreamed  with  such 
deep  luxury  of  joy.  It  seemed  to  her,  strangely, 
above  all  things,  that  she  feared  the  touch  of 
Julian's  body  against  hers,  and  that  she  would  have 
been  glad  that  night  to  sleep  alone,  afar  off,  beside 
some  Icy  mountain  pool  under  the  cold  stars.  The 
soft  beauty  of  their  rooms  seemed  repulsive  to  her. 
With  the  abiding  Instinct  of  humanity,  pitiful  and 
sublime,  not  to  relinquish  Its  hold  upon  high 
dreams,  she  attributed  her  sudden  reaction  to  all 
noble  Impulses,  ethical  and  spiritual  only — not  to  Its 
true  source,  a  passing  satiety  of  the  senses.  Nor 
did  she  suspect  that  the  same  cause  was  at  the  root 
of  Julian's  sudden  and  fierce  absorption  in  the 
things  of  the  intellect. 

She  found  him  still  awake  and  dressed,  calm  but 
tired.    He  turned  to  her  with  a  wistful  smile. 

*' Where  have  you  been  all  the  evening,  dear?" 

"Talking  to  Miss  St.  Preux." 

He  nodded  approvingly.  Then,  with  an  Impul- 
sive movement,  he  caught  her  hands  In  his. 

"Was  I  unkind  to  you  to-day,  dearest?" 

She  smiled  at  him  through  Irrepressible  tears. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  173 

"Forgive  me,  my  little  girl;  forgive  me.  And 
don't  attribute  any  significance  to  such  things.  I'm 
easily  annoyed  when  I'm  working;  but  we  have 
done  nothing  except  play  too  long.  I  must  get  back 
to  my  work ;  and  though  I  fail  a  thousand  times,  I 
shall  succeed  at  last.  You  must  help  me,  sweet- 
heart, and  if  the  work  goes  wrong  and  I'm  tired 
and  irritable,  be  sorry  for  me  and  not  angry.  Will 
you?" 

The  appeal  seemed  fashioned  for  her  present 
mood. 

"I  want  to  help  you  in  all  the  best  efforts  of  your 
life,  Julian.    I  want  to  do  that,  above  all  things !" 

He  kissed  her  in  gratitude  and  trust  and  friend- 
ship, and  peace  came  into  her  soul. 

Next  morning  at  breakfast  Held  was  voluble.  It 
appeared  that  he  had  attended  a  prayer-meeting  at 
a  huge  negro  church  the  night  before  and  had  re- 
ceived a  new  sensation. 

"It  was  superb,"  he  declared.  "The  existence  of 
such  primitive  fervour  in  this  sophisticated  age  is 
not  to  be  neglected.  It  was  so  strange  and  so  beau- 
tiful that  I  wept." 

A  smile  of  Incredulity  passed  around  the  table 
at  the  notion  of  Held's  weeping.  Only  Miss  St. 
Preux  was  grave. 


174  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

**Do  you  think  it  admirable  to  laugh  at  the  faith 
of  simple  souls?" 

He  turned  to  her  suavely. 

"You  mistake  my  attitude  entirely.  The  crudity 
of  laughter  at  such  things  is  behind  me.  They  611 
me  with  delicious  wonder  and  all  my  primitive 
senses  vibrate  in  sympathy." 

But  he  had  not  satisfied  Miss  St.  Preux. 

"The  old-fashioned  unbeliever  had,  at  least,  the 
full  courage  of  his  negations.    What  have  you?" 

"Nothing,  dear  lady,  except  complete  openness 
of  mind." 

"Without  faith  or  hope." 

"But  with  boundless  charity." 

"Even,  unfortunately,  for  yourself." 

He  looked  sullen  at  the  laughter  which  heralded 
his  apparent  defeat.  He  pouted  his  full,  red  lips 
and  his  blue  eyes  looked  angry.  He  turned  to 
Ware. 

"You  agree  with  me?" 

"Intellectually,  yes.  But  my  emotional  attitude 
is  different." 

"Ah,  you  should  see  what  I  have  seen.  It  thrills 
one  ecstatically." 

"I  have  no  time  at  present,"  said  Julian.  "Would 
you  like  to  go,  Frances?" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  175 

"I  should  be  so  charmed  to  act  as  escort,"  Held 
broke  In. 

Frances  hesitated;  but  remembering  that,  per- 
haps, Julian  would  like  an  entirely  undisturbed 
evening  of  work,  she  consented  to  go,  and  he 
seemed  quite  content  that  she  should.  The  woman 
of  the  sad,  brown  eyes  ostentatiously  dropped  her 
fork  clattering  upon  her  plate,  but  a  look  from 
Held  seemed  to  silence  further  demonstration  on 
her  part.  Miss  St.  Preux  frowned  and  Frances  was 
aware  that  she  was  In  the  presence  of  some  strange 
complication. 

"We  start  Immediately  after  dinner,"  said  Held. 
"The  meetings  begin  rather  early." 

Frances  nodded  assent. 

All  through  the  day  she  shivered  at  times  In 
anticipation  of  the  barbaric  scene  which  she  was 
to  witness.  She  had  no  Idea  of  what  It  would  be 
like,  but  she  discovered  In  herself  a  craving  for  ex- 
citement which  might  be  satisfied.  For  Julianas 
sake,  who  was  preoccupied,  she  tried  to  master  her 
restlessness.  But  she  did  not  want  to  think.  It  con- 
fused and  hurt  her  In  these  days,  and  sad,  dim, 
poignant  memories  came  unbidden  to  darken  for 
her  the  blue  and  gold  of  Queenshaven.  .  .  . 


176  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

The  night  air  was  mild  and  caressing  when  she 
met  Held  on  the  verandah. 

"It  is  like  a  summer  night,"  he  said.  "Let  us 
walk." 

"Is  it  far?"  she  asked. 

"There  are  no  distances  in  Queenshaven,  nor  in 
the  world — at  times." 

She  wanted  to  resent  his  impertinence.  But  the 
fear  that  evil  knowledge  of  her  and  her  fate  might 
be  his,  came  sickenlngly  upon  her.  For  then  he 
might,  by  a  word  breathed,  shatter  her  content. 
And  in  spite  of  his  words,  his  manner  was  elabo- 
rately courteous.  His  eyes  were  dark  now  and  vel- 
vety; in  their  great,  black  pupils  shimmered  the 
dancing  yellow  flame  of  the  street-lamps,  and  from 
them  streamed  a  power  to  compel  all  languorous 
and  alluring  thoughts.  Frances,  her  first  fear  ban- 
ished, yielded  to  their  beauty  and  to  the  charm  of 
his  artfully  modulated  voice.  He  was  pleasant  and 
interesting.  She  permitted  her  mind  to  dwell  on 
nothing  else. 

The  darkness  In  the  Queenshaven  streets  was  of 
a  liquid  softness  that  seemed  to  flood  and  eddy 
about  house  and  wall  and  tree.  And  then  the 
moon  arose  and  the  highest  boughs  of  the  trees 
^flashed  silver  leaves  in  the  light  wind.    They  came 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  177 

upon  Marlon  Square,  and  here  the  great  moon  rode 
free  in  the  sky,  hanging  for  a  moment  like  an  aure- 
ole behind  the  grim  head  of  Calhoun  upon  his  tall 
monument.  The  great,  silent  space  before  the 
ancient  barracks  of  the  military  school  was  bright 
with  a  pale,  unearthly  brightness,  and  so  silent  that 
they  could  hear  across  it  the  measured  step  of  a 
single  sentry  by  the  iron  gate. 

Turning  eastward  into  Calhoun  Street,  they  were 
caught  almost  unawares  in  a  stream  of  loudly  chat- 
tering negroes  which  carried  them,  presently,  to  the 
door  of  the  church.  It  was  a  large,  pretentious 
building  of  red  brick.  But  it  was  apparently  in- 
complete, and  on  one  side,  where  a  tower  should 
have  been,  a  huge  hole  in  the  masonry  was  covered 
by  a  wooden  shed.  Held  and  Frances  followed  the 
crowd  up  an  outer  iron  stairway  and  entered  the 
church. 

It  was  a  huge  hall,  as  well  equipped  as  the  aver- 
age Protestant  church  in  the  South,  but,  unlike  the 
temples  of  the  dominant  race,  it  bore  signs  of  rough 
usage.  Carpet  and  cushions  were  torn  and  the 
wood-work  of  the  pews  was  covered  by  a  thick  film 
of  nauseating  grease.  With  hardly  an  empty  space 
in  the  long  pews,  rose  close-packed  and  seething  in 
the   warm,    fetid   atmosphere  line   after   line   of 


178  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

faces,  black  and  brown  and  yellow,  already  swaying 
here  and  there  with  a  slow,  rhythmic  motion.  Held 
and  Frances  had  scarcely  found  a  seat  when  an  enor- 
mous quadroon,  clad  in  a  frock-coat  that  was  green 
with  wear,  stepped  on  the  carpeted  platform  and 
gave  out  a  hymn.  The  organ  that  played  the  pre- 
lude was  small  and  Its  reedy  quaver  disproportion- 
ate to  the  spacious  room,  but  suddenly  broke  about 
them  from  a  thousand  voices  the  words  of  the  song. 
It  was  a  familiar  hymn-tune,  but  never  had  Frances 
heard  It  sung  In  this  fashion.  Not  only  were  the 
voices  full  of  a  wild  fervour,  but  they  transformed 
the  strain  Into  an  echoing,  melancholy  wall  that 
rose  and  receded,  thrilled  and  quavered  In  poignant 
waves  of  Indescribably  troubling  sound.  At  the 
close  of  each  stanza  the  resonant  voice  of  the 
preacher  called  out:  "All  slngl  All  sing  I  Glory 
be  to  Gawd!"  And  when  the  last  stanza  was 
reached,  hands  were  clapping  and  feet  tramping  to 
the  rhythmic  beat,  rise  and  fall  of  the  Innumerable 
voices. 

The  congregation  knelt  and  the  preacher  prayed, 
communicating  to  the  conventional  verbiage  that 
he  used  a  plaintive  appeal,  and  from  here  and  there 
in  the  hall  rose  single  voices,  as  he  prayed,  ejaculat- 
ing: "DassoT    "Amen  I"    "Oh,  Lawdy,  dassol" 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  179 

with  fervent  faith  and  gratitude.  Another  hymn 
was  sung,  followed  by  the  sermon.  The  preacher 
used  fairly  correct  English.  His  sentiments  were 
threadbare,  but  through  the  discourse  sounded  a 
mad  strain  of  incoherence  and  the  man's  voice  rose 
in  almost  superhuman  strength.  By  the  mere  vol- 
ume of  agonised  sound  he  seemed  to  wish  to  drag 
sinners  to  repentance.  He  shouted  echoingly  of  the 
saving  blood  of  Christ,  called  upon  his  flock  to 
bathe  in  that  scarlet  stream  and  cleanse  themselves 
of  sin.  "An'  ef  you  don't  accept  the  glorious  offer 
to  come  to  Him  and  be  clean,  there's  no  hope  for 
you — no  hope — ^no  hopel"  The  voice  was  full  of 
wild  sobs  and  lamentations  as  it  repeated  the  words, 
and  then  without  wavering  it  changed  to  an  incom- 
parable glory  of  exultation  and  sang,  alone  and  un- 
accompanied by  the  organ : 

"At  the  cross,  at  the  cross,  where  I  first  saw  the  light 
And  the  burden  of  my  heart  rolled  away. 
It  was  there  by  faith  I  received  my  sight. 
And  now  I  am  happy  all  the  day!" 

Voice  after  voice  took  up  the  strain  until  the 
church  was  again  filled  by  the  thrilling,  maddening 
storm  of  music.  The  singers  arose  from  their 
seats,  threw  up  their  hands,  and  turned  up  their 


i8o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

shining,  black  faces  and  dilated  eyes.  When  the 
fervour  was  at  Its  height  the  preacher  raised  his 
hand  and  commanded  silence,  for  a  space — the 
silence  of  unspoken  prayer.   .   ,.. 

Frances  discovered,  to  her  confusion,  that  she 
was  clasping  Held's  hand.  An  emotional  whirl- 
wind seemed  to  have  passed  over  her  with  little  re^ 
sistance  on  her  part.  She  saw  that  her  nails  had 
wounded  him.  She  must  have  been  mad.  But  he 
would  not  let  her  speak.  "Don't,"  he  whispered. 
"Wait."  Stirred  though  he  was,  he  had  himself 
well  In  hand,  watching  with  Infinite  curiosity  the 
beating  upon  his  nerves  of  these  barbaric  emotions. 
But  Frances  felt  herself,  especially  now  In  this 
tense  silence,  perilously  adrift  upon  waves  of  sheer 
sensation.  .  .  .  From  the  silence,  which  seemed 
at  length  to  grow  intolerable  with  the  suppressed 
travail  of  troubling  ecstasy,  burst  a  long,  Inhuman 
shriek.  A  thin,  consumptive  negro  woman  arose 
from  her  seat.  The  creature  stretched  her  arms  to 
Heaven,  panted,  and  from  her  lips  fell  flecks  of 
foam.  *'I  see  He,  my  Jesus  I  Yeh,  Lawd,  I  come. 
Hallelujah!"  Groans  and  cries  answered  her  as 
she  continued  to  pour  forth  a  cataract  of  epileptic 
babbling,  broken  by  wails  and  shrieks.  Faster  the 
words  came  and  faster ;  her  eyes  became  glazed ;  the 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  i8i 

woman  fell  back  lifeless;  and  over  her  surged 
another  sea  of  chanting  and  clapping  and  trampling, 
and  half-articulate  sobbing  cries:  **She  save' !  Oh, 
Gawd!  Hallelujah!  She  converted !  Oh! — '' 

Without  In  the  cool  night  air,  Frances  stood 
trembling.  She  had  been  able  to  bear  no  longer  the 
waves  of  hysteria  about  her  and  had  fled  from  the 
scene.    Held  followed  her. 

"You  missed  the  best  part,"  he  said,  "the  last 
hymn." 

She  tried  to  regain  her  composure. 
"It  was  horrible." 

"But  the  pastor  knows  his  business.  Ah!  that 
man  Is  an  artist  in  his  way.  The  methods  he  uses 
are  crude  enough,  no  doubt,  but  how  superbly  ef- 
fective!" 

"Even  you  were  moved." 
"That  Is  just  It.  So  few  things  can  move  me." 
She  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  scene. 
All  her  nerves  were  preternaturally  sensitive  and 
Held's  light  touch  upon  her  arm  was  like  some  ex- 
quisite pain.  She  had  come  lately  to  live  In  large 
measure  In  a  conscious  play  of  sensations,  and  this 
new  effect  was  not  unpleasant.  The  hand  with  which, 
occasionally,  he  touched  hers,  was  cool  and  smooth 
and  white  as  a  glrPs.    She  herself  ached  with  sup- 


1 82  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

pressed  fever,  and  the  coolness  of  his  flesh  appealed 
to  her,  refreshed  her,  as  Icy  water  would  have 
healed  the  burning  of  her  throat.  Where  was  the 
ethical  Impulse,  the  clear  beauty  of  calm  thought  of 
the  night  before?  Her  limbs  throbbed,  and  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  must  In  truth  be  wicked  and 
different  from  other  women  whom  no  wayward  de- 
sires stung  and  no  weakness  rendered  defenceless. 
She  fought  the  sensuous  thoughts  that  assailed  her, 
barely  listening  to  Held's  talk;  she  tried  to  hurt 
herself  by  pressing  a  sharp  ring  she  wore  deeply 
into  her  flesh,  but  the  pain  seemed  only  to  accentu- 
ate the  craving  of  her  senses.  She  strove  to  fix  her 
mind  on  grave  and  piteous  and  tragic  things,  but 
the  thoughts  became  a  mere  mechanical  repetition 
of  unspoken  words  and  her  true  consciousness  dwelt 
upon  the  fair  boy  at  her  side. 

They  came  to  the  shore  of  the  bay  and  stood  for 
a  little  while  leaning  against  the  Iron  railing.  The 
bright  path  of  the  moonlight  lay  upon  the  waters. 

'^Look  closely,"  said  Held.  "The  moon  throws 
innumerable  rings  of  burnished  steel  Into  the  water, 
and  when  they  touch  the  surface — they  break." 

She  gazed  Into  the  brightness  and  saw  that  he 
spoke  truly.  Not  only  did  the  glittering  rings 
break,   but  writhed  like  silver  snakes   upon   the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  183 

waves.  She  gazed  for  a  long  time  and  her  soul 
seemed  to  pass  from  her  Into  the  flashing  play  of 
the  steel  rings.  She  knew  that  Held  was  coming 
nearer  to  her,  but  she  could  not  take  her  eyes  away. 
He  laid  his  cool  cheek  softly  against  her  hot  one. 
With  a  supreme  effort  she  moved  away. 

*'0h,  why  did  you  do  that?" 

"It  was  such  a  little,  harmless  thing,"  he  an- 
swered in  his  softest  tone,  "and  you  did  not  dis- 
like It." 

"It  was  hateful  and  insulting." 

"It  was  not  hateful  to  you,  dear  lady.  You 
think  that  it  should  have  been,  of  course.  I  know 
that.  Nor  was  it  insulting.  But  will  you  promise 
to  forgive  me  if  I  promise  to  offend  no  more?" 

She  was  tired  of  struggling.  Everything  seemed 
to  conspire  to  bring  into  relief  the  baser  qualities  of 
her  being.    But  flight,  at  least,  was  possible. 

"Let  us  go." 

It  was  not  late  and  the  windows  of  the  Villa 
Mercedes  were  still  like  splashes  of  sharp  yellow 
behind  the  sheltering  trees.  On  the  verandah  Fran- 
ces thanked  Held  in  conventional  words  for  his 
escort  and  went  to  her  room. 

As  she  passed  through  the  softly  carpeted  upper 
hall  a  door  opened  and  the  stout  woman  of  th^  sad, 


1 84  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

brown  eyes  came  out  swiftly.  She  had  on  a  loose 
dressing-gown. 

"You  have  been  out  with  Arthur  Held?" 

*'I  have.    Why  do  you  ask?" 

"I  want  to  warn  you — you  child.  I  know  that  he 
IS  evil  through  and  through — merciless,  brutal,  de- 
praved !  You  don't  suspect  it  ?  No ;  his  eyes  are  in- 
nocent enough.  But  don't  let  yourself  be  deceived ! 
Don't  .  .  . !    I  know    ...  too  well  .  .  ." 

It  was  crude  and  horrible  and  ugly.  Frances 
tried  to  pass,  but  the  woman  blocked  her  path. 

"Have  you  heard  what  I  said?" 

"Yes,  yes;  please  let  me  go." 

She  was  almost  ashamed  to  go  to  Julian  after 
all  that  had  passed.  But  his  whole  attitude 
smothered  remorse.  He  was  sitting  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, lost  over  a  pile  of  manuscripts,  and  held  a 
brier-wood  pipe  firmly  between  his  teeth.  His  hair 
was  in  disorder,  his  right  hand  slightly  stained  with 
ink,  and  he  appeared  to  her  suddenly  as  ugly  and 
forbidding.  Deliberately  he  completed  the  sen- 
tence he  was  writing  and  then  swung  around. 

"Had  an  interesting  evening,  my  dear?  I've  cer- 
tainly had  a  profitable  one.  Well,  aren't  you  com- 
ing to  me?" 

He  kissed  her  and  she  tasted  the  acrid  tobacco 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  185 

on  his  lips.  She  could  hardly  restrain  a  movement 
of  disgust. 

"Oh,  yes;  it  was  very  Interesting,  Indeed.  But 
Tm  tired  and  I  think  I'll  go  to  bed." 

"All  right,  little  girl.  I  won't  just  yet.  I'm  ia 
good  trim  and  it's  only  eleven." 

She  threw  herself  on  her  bed  and  cried  softly, 
fearing  that  the  sound  might  reach  his  ears.  He 
did  not  care  what  became  of  her,  whether  she  was 
happy  or  wretched,  clean  or  defiled.  He  had  his 
work,  his  detestable  work.  She  almost  hated  him 
as  she  stared,  sleepless,  into  the  darkness. 


XIV 

Whatever  had  been  its  cause,  the  one  hour  of 
reaction  against  the  influences  that  surrounded  her 
had  marked  a  period  in  the  life  of  this  woman 
struggling  under  the  careless  stars  with  the  imme- 
morial division  in  the  life  of  man.  Isolated  and 
repressed  from  childhood  by  one  of  those  pitiless 
accidents  (economic  In  their  origin)  of  modem  so- 
ciety, she  had  cast  off,  in  the  strength  of  her  youth 
and  passion,  the  intolerable  fetters.  She  had  found 
a  life  of  sensuous  and  sensual  enjoyment;  but  her 
mate,  with  a  man's  Indomitable  strife  after  ob- 
jective self-realisation,  whether  in  words  or  Iron  or 
stone,  had  turned  from  her  and  left  her  In  Idleness 
with  a  hot  yearning  of  the  senses.  But  she  had  had 
one  hour  when  the  state  of  her  body  permitted  her 
to  divine  that  all  was  not  right  in  her  life  and  that  a 
strong  disgust  at  It  could  assail  her.  The  hour 
passed  and  only  Its  memory  remained,  dim  but 
abiding.  She  endeavoured,  as  she  saw  herself  gath- 
ered Into  a  new  entanglement  of  the  senses,  to  recall 

1 86 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  187 

that  clear,  high,  austere  mood,  but  still  In  vain.  It 
needed  tongue  after  tongue  of  the  elemental  flame 
leaping  from  the  furnace  of  life  to  purge  her  flesh 
and  to  establish  the  equilibrium  between  soul  and 
sense,  whose  disturbance  means  death  In  life.  .  .  . 
She  clung.  In  self-defence,  to  the  Idea  that  Julian 
was  careless  of  her  happiness  and  that  he  did  not 
respect  her  because  she  was  not  his  wife.  In  her 
heart  she  knew  herself  to  be  unjust,  but  she  had  a 
fund  of  useful  feminine  perversity  with  which  to 
blind  her  eyes,  voluntarily,  and  justify  her  ways. 
He  seemed  to  be  always  at  work,  and  when  he  was 
not,  to  want  her  to  take  long,  bracing  walks  In  the 
clear,  mild  Winter  weather.  And  still  her  flesh 
ached  with  desire  unsatisfied  and  she  became  queru- 
lous and  reproachful.  He  looked  at  her  with  eyes 
so  sorrowful,  at  times,  that  she  wanted  to  cry  on 
his  shoulder  and  tell  him  of  her  confusion.  But 
always  Held's  white  face  and  blue  eyes  seemed  to 
intervene,  and  the  more  she  turned  from  Julian  the 
deeper  he,  by  a  conscious  effort,  steeped  himself  In 
his  work.  He  had  no  time  to  puzzle  out  what  was 
happening :  his  task  called  him.  Thus  no  outburst 
that  might  have  cleared  the  atmosphere  of  their 
souls  occurred  and  they  passed  each  other  brooding 
and  with  averted  eyes. 


1 88  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

One  forenoon  an  explanation  seemed  Imminent. 
She  stood  before  him,  completely  exquisite,  fasten- 
ing her  hat. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 
"^To  see  the  works  at  the  naval  station." 

"Alone?" 

"No;  with  Mr.  Heidi"  she  defied  him. 

"Aren't  you — " 

He  checked  himself  and  a  dull  crimson  rose  Into 
his  forehead  and  receded.  He  got  up  and,  as  she 
drew  on  her  gloves,  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear.  I  hope  you'll  en- 
joy yourself." 

But  all  that  day  Held  found  her  listless  and  ab- 
sent. She  was  trying  to  pierce  the  mystery  of 
Julian's  conduct,  to  weigh  In  her  soul  the  motive  that 
withheld  him  from  being  betrayed  into  any  expres- 
sion of  jealousy.  Did  he  suffer?  Pray  God  that 
he  did.    Then  all  would  be  well — ^yet.  .  .  . 

At  last  Held  became  impatient.  Their  intimacy 
had  proceeded  by  leaps  in  the  last  ten  days. 

"My  dear  Frances,  you  are  unconscionably  stur 
pid  to-day." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  seemed  puny  and  ab- 
surd with  all  his  grace  and  youth.     And  for  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  189 

sake  of  this  artificial  boy  she  was  making  a  strong 
man — the  one  man — suffer.     She  turned  to  Held. 

"You  will  remember  not  to  use  my  first  name 
hereafter.    I'm  going  home." 

"So  am  I,"  he  retw.rned.  "Perhaps  you  will  feel 
more  human  to-morrow." 

She  was  angry  at  his  refusal  to  be  rebuffed  and 
spoke  no  word  to  him  on  their  way  back.  She 
panted  for  the  evening  to  come.  Something  must 
happen  then,  some  word  must  be  said  to  bring  heal- 
ing to  the  troubled  heart.  She  would  wring  from 
Julian  a  confession  of  jealousy  which  would  assure 
her  of  his  love.  She  was  hungry  for  such  assur- 
ances, and  he,  though  kind,  was  silent  concerning 
the  one  thing  upon  which  she  craved  expression. 

At  last  they  were  alone  together.  Ages  seemed 
to  have  passed  In  waiting  for  this  moment,  ages  of 
alternate  certitude  and  despair.  Now  she  would 
hear  him  speak  the  word  that  would  make  all  well. 
He  seemed  to  divine  from  her  restless  eyes,  from 
her  movements,  that  some  subtle  crisis  was  at  hand, 
and  also  to  suspect  something  of  its  character,  for 
notable  lines  of  sternness  curved  about  his  mouth. 
She  fluttered,  with  birdlike  Inconsequence,  from 
place  to  place,  object  to  object,  and  he  sat  silent  and 


I90  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

watchful.     Then,  with  a  movement  of  petulance, 
she  threw  herself  Into  a  chair. 

"I'm  rather  tired  of  Held's  perpetual  clever- 


ness." 


She  had  calculated  with  nicety  how  his  retort, 
"Then  why  do  you  seek  his  society?"  would  at  once 
open  the  flood-gates  of  her  grief  and  fear  and  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  emotional  atti- 
tude. Tensely  she  waited  for  his  words.  They 
came. 

"But  his  cleverness  Is  very  genuine." 

Then  she  arose  in  the  violence  of  her  weakness 
and  defeat. 

"You  do  not  care  where  I  go  or  what  becomes  of 
me.     You  are  wholly  selfish!" 

"I  care  profoundly,  dear.  I  care  more  for  that 
than  for  anything  else  In  life.  But  I  am  not  your 
guardian.  You  are  entirely  free.  The  only  com- 
pelling power  that  I  admit  Is  love.  If  you  do  not 
love  me  enough  to  prefer  my  society  to  another's, 
any  words  of  mine  would  be  not  only  superfluous, 
but  impertinent.  That — If  you  will  remember — 
is  the  conception  on  which  our  union  Is  based." 

She  came  near  to  him  for  a  last  attempt.  The 
words  which  he  had  spoken  seemed  to  her  sense- 
less babble,  irrelevant  here  and  now. 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  191 

"So,  Julian,  you  are  entirely  removed  from  or- 
dinary human  feelings — such  as  jealousy?" 

His  hands  jerked  and  his  lips  opened,  but  by  a 
truly  heroic  effort  he  subdued  his  passion  to  the 
calm  of  his  theory. 

"My  dear,  jealousy  presupposes  a  right  of  posr- 
sesslon  In  another,  regardless  of  the  other's  will  or 
feeling.  Such  a  supposition  has  always  seemed  to 
me  monstrous.  There  can  be  no  question  of  jeal- 
ousy between  us.  So  long  as  you  love  me  I  shall  be 
glad.  When  you  cease  to  love  me  I  shall  be  sorry — 
but  not  jealous." 

How  she  would  have  loved  him  had  he  arisen  in 
the  wrath  of  the  primitive  man  and  struck  her  to 
the  earth,  or  had  he  given  Held  a  drubbing  with 
his  nervous  right  arm  and  then  taken  her  away. 
Her  gorge  rose  at  his  apparently  cold  Inhumanity. 
She  had  been  right,  evidently.  In  thinking  that  he 
did  not  care.  No  one,  she  thought — forgetting 
that  for  ideas  men  have  died — no  one  who  bore  in 
his  heart  true  love  of  any  woman  could  speak  thus. 
And  so  she  left  him  alone  in  the  corroding  silence 
to  which  his  theory  condemned  him.  .  .  . 

The  next  day,  almost  without  warning,  a  party  of 
wealthy  tourists  swooped  down  upon  the  Villa  Mer- 
cedes,  and  Mrs.   Pressley's  hair  seemed  to  emit 


192  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

sparks  of  excitement.  She  whispered  to  Frances 
that  these  people  were  "tremendous  swells*'  and 
that  Mr.  Held's  Influence  In  fashionable  circles  had 
brought  them  here.  Upon  the  quiet  dignity  of 
Queenshaven  life  these  newcomers  showed  like 
splotches  of  gaudy  glare.  Their  movements  were 
like  the  phantastic  hurrying  of  figures  In  a  klne- 
matograph.  They  seemed  utterly  incapable  of  re- 
pose or  thought.  Queenshaven  was  to  be  "done" — 
with  thoroughness.  Skirts  rustled  uninterruptedly 
through  the  quiet  corridors  of  the  Villa;  meals 
were  served  at  all  hours;  before  the  gate  wheezed 
and  stank  an  abominable  motor-car.  The  Boyds 
and  Hochstetters  called  Held  and  each  other  by 
their  first  names  and  their  voices  rang  continually 
through  the  house.  Julian  studiously  avoided  an 
introduction  to  them.  The  vulgarity  of  their  kind 
was  hateful  to  him.  They  seemed  to  him  those 
phenomena  of  American  life  which,  above  all,  a 
wise  man  must  treat  with  contempt.  As  economic 
problems  they  had  their  Importance,  as  human  per- 
sonalities they  were  unworthy  of  notice.  But  Fran- 
ces, through  Held,  was  drawn  into  the  swirl.  She 
was  not  lacking  in  sensitiveness  to  the  desecrating 
noises  of  the  horde  amid  the  storied  gardens  of 
Queenshaven.     But  they  offered  her  forgetfulness. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  193 

Lucy  Boyd,  tall,  stout,  dressed  invariably  in  light- 
coloured  silks,  pronounced  the  city  "slow.**  Why, 
she  wondered  in  her  unsubdued  voice,  had  they 
ever  come  here.  Fred  Hochstetter  {^'Changez  les 
dames*'  seemed  their  motto)  passed  his  arm  jocu- 
larly about  her  artificially  diminished  waist.  *'That 
precious  husband  of  yours  dragged  us  here.  It's 
up  to  you  to  furnish  us  with  amusement!"  She 
did.  Excursions  were  organised,  mad  rushes  over 
space,  whose  purpose  seemed  not  to  be  an  enjoy- 
ment, but  rather  a  weary  necessity  of  noise  and  mo- 
tion. Motor-cars  whirred  through  the  solemn 
woods,  emerged  unnaturally  beside  still  creeks 
and  far-spreading,  yellow  marshes  from  which  the 
frightened  marsh-hens  rose  with  flapping  wings; 
hollow  chatter  assaulted  the  calm  splendour  of  set- 
ting suns  over  grey  seas  mottled  with  scarlet  pools, 
and  in  the  melancholy  sweetness  of  dusk  sounded 
the  inexpugnable  laughter  of  man. 

Frances  hated  herself  for  sharing  In  this  impious 
revelry,  but  a  spirit  of  perverse  defiance  clouded  her 
soul.  An  expression  of  irritation  at  the  noisy  rest- 
lessness of  Mrs.  Boyd,  which  slipped  from  Julian, 
seemed  to  sting  her,  and  she  defended  her  new 
friends  with  intemperate  warmth.  Julian  lifted 
slow,  sad  eyes  to  her  face.  .  .  . 


194  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  hurried  out  and  left  him.  She  could  not 
have  told  why  she  had  spoken  all  these  wild  and 
foolish  words — she  only  knew  that  she  was 
wretched,  body  and  soul,  that  her  heart  sickened, 
and  that,  somehow,  Julian  was  at  fault.  Blind  re- 
sentment against  him  followed,  a  boundless  irrita- 
tion at  all  his  qualities  of  mind  and  body.  And  she 
was  so  tired,  so  tired.  .  .  . 

For  that  afternoon  a  sailing  excursion  had  been 
planned  and  a  small  yacht  hired.  New  awnings 
were  spread  over  the  clean-swabbed  deck  and  tables 
and  wicker-chairs  placed  on  it.  A  refrigerator  had 
been  stored  in  the  cabin  and  a  case  of  champagne 
squeezed  Into  it.  Weather  even  milder  than  usual 
in  Queenshaven,  a  sky  of  depthless  blue,  a  level  of 
windless  water,  rendered  the  day  propitious. 

They  started  out  in  the  early  afternoon  from 
the  harbour.  A  breeze  from  the  northwest  filled 
the  sail,  patched  and  gaudy,  as  of  some  phantastic 
Malay  prau  in  the  Intolerable  glitter  of  an  Orien- 
tal ocean.  The  sapphire  water  washed  with  soft 
plashing  about  keel  and  sides ;  the  motion  was  soft, 
languorous,  dream-like;  an  immense  quietude 
brooded  over  all  things.  No  traffic  disturbed  the 
far  serenity  of  the  bay.  Only  here  and  there  lay 
noiselessly  at  anchor  a  few  graceful  coasting  ves- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  195 

sels,  with  sails  furled  and  slender  masts  like  black 
bars  laid  upon  the  horizon's  boundless  blue.  The 
sharp,  red  roof  of  the  lighthouse,  the  only  touch  of 
alien  colour  in  that  vast  harmony  of  gold,  sapphire 
and  the  olive  of  island  forests,  accentuated  the  lu- 
minous completeness  of  effect.  They  passed  an 
ancient  fort,  passed  reaches  of  yellow  marsh  broken 
by  estuaries  and  glittering  inlets,  and  landed  upon  a 
steep  and  wooded  shore. 

But  it  was  cool  in  the  sunless,  half-drenched 
woods,  and  they  determined  to  set  sail  once  more 
and  prepare  a  luncheon  on  deck  under  the  glow  of 
the  westering  sun.  Various  tins  were  extracted  from 
the  ice-chest,  fruit,  and  the  apparently  Inevitable 
bottles  of  champagne.  Boyd  and  Hochstetter  ate 
with  the  studied  dellberateness  of  men  performing  a 
memorable  action.  Mrs.  Hochstetter,  who  was 
thin  and  acrid,  hardly  tasted  food,  but  Lucy  Boyd 
stuffed  herself  to  an  accompaniment  of  shrill  criti- 
cism on  the  scene  before  them.  A  morbid  avidness 
of  mere  size  seemed  to  mark  her  mental  process. 
Queenshaven  Bay  was  well  enough,  but  she  had 
seen — !    Did  they  remember — ? 

Frances  was  thirsty  and  drank  several  glasses  of 
champagne  which  Held,  who  was  himself  studi- 
ously abstemious,  brought  her.     Soon  a  thin  film 


196  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

seemed  to  cover  sky  and  water  and  all  things  to 
become  unreal.  She  had  the  most  absurd  desire  to 
wave  her  arms  grotesquely;  but,  being  fully  con- 
scious of  the  quality  of  the  Impulse,  she  restrained 
herself.  The  soft  dark  fell,  and  with  It  clouds 
drifted  Inland  and  swathed  the  sky,  quenching  the 
glow  of  sunset.  Lucy  Boyd,  wrapt  In  her  cloak,  fell 
asleep.  From  the  dripping  prow  came  the  voices  of 
the  two  men  and  Mrs.  Hochstetter,  with  a  recurrent 
echo  of  the  word  "dollars,"  and  In  the  stern  Fran- 
ces and  Held  were  left  alone — ^alone,  as  it  seemed, 
in  the  opaque  darkness.  In  which  the  lights  of  the 
city  were  like  red  and  yellow  holes  punched  Into 
black  velvet.  The  feeling  of  the  unreality  of  all 
things  had  quite  conquered  her  now.  She  knew 
that  It  was  caused  by  the  wine  which  she  had  drunk, 
but  the  knowledge  was  of  no  avail.  She  lay  back 
in  a  low  chair,  wonderfully  contented  In  this  phan- 
tasmal world.  In  truth  a  feeling  of  fatuous  satis- 
faction made  her  almost  laugh  aloud.  She  could 
not  help  tapping  her  hand  merrily  upon  the  side  of 
the  chair,  and  It  was  amusing  that  she  could  not 
always  find  the  side,  but  often  dropped  her  hand 
into  empty  space.  She  told  Held  about  It  and  he 
joined  In  her  amusement.  Then  she  began  to  feel 
very  sleepy  and  would  suddenly  fall  fathom  after 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  197 

fathom  into  deep,  strange,  gorgeous  dreams  that 
lasted  but  a  second  and  seemed  to  cast  her  forth 
again  only  half  awake.  Gradually  the  dreams  grew 
a  little  longer,  a  little  deeper.  She  stretched  her 
limbs  in  luxurious  rest.  In  her  dreams  she  saw  that 
amber  moon  which,  on  her  first  night  in  Queens- 
haven,  had  shone  upon  the  balcony,  upon  Julian 
turning  away  from  all  that  outer  glory  unto  her. 
She  saw  him  coming  to  her  again,  saw  the  strange 
fire  in  his  eyes,  felt  his  hand  strong  upon  hers.  .  .  . 
The  grinding  crash  of  the  boat  against  the  small 
pier  flung  her  from  her  dream;  Held's  shoulder 
pressed  hers,  his  eyes  looked  into  hers,  and,  by  the 
flicker  of  a  lamp,  she  saw  those  half-closed,  satyr 
eyes,  those  heavy  lips  half-open,  that  conquering 
smile.  Her  consciousness  sprang  up  like  an  armed 
man.  She  had  been  weak,  adrift  upon  a  sea  of 
dreams.  What  if  the  boat  had  passed  a  little  longer 
on  its  gentle* course,  a  little  farther  .  .  .? 

She  pushed  Held  away  and  the  pin  of  her  brooch 
left  a  livid  stroke  on  his  pale  cheek.  Her  knees 
shook  with  an  indescribable  horror  and  weakness 
as  she  saw  him  wipe  a  crimson  drop  from  his  face. 
He  looked  utterly  repulsive  to  her  in  the  faint  light 
and  she  hated  him  and  herself.  Buried  instincts 
arose  in  all  their  might.  Though  the  irreparable  had 


198  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

not  happened,  though  no  legal  bond  united  her  to 
Julian,  she  knew  herself  akin  to  the  woman  whom 
Christ  had  not  condemned.  .  .  .  She  moved  as  in  an 
evil  dream.  It  was  not  she  who  answered  the  noisy- 
chatter  of  her  companions ;  her  real  self  lay  hidden 
deep  below,  withdrawn,  stricken,  shamed.  It  was 
some  gibbering  marionette  in  her  form  that  walked 
by  Held's  side. 

The  lights  of  the  Villa  Mercedes  came  into  view 
and  she  shuddered  as  with  sudden  cold.  She  spoke 
no  longer.  A  numbing  sense  of  failure  swathed  her 
soul,  for  had  she  not  failed  utterly  in  every  relation 
of  human  existence  to  approach  even  a  moderate 
standard  of  goodness  ?  had  she  not  been  a  faithless 
daughter  ?  was  she  not,  in  the  last  analysis,  a  faith- 
less wife?  That  was,  then,  what  all  came  to — ^the 
dim  yearnings  of  her  girlhood,  the  fretting  at  life 
in  her  father's  house,  and  love-  itself !  It  was  all  but 
the  fruit  of  the  corruption  of  her  own  black  heart. 

She  came  into  the  dimly  lit  rooms  and  saw  Julian 
slumbering  uneasily  on  a  couch  near  his  desk.  He 
looked  pale  and  worn  and  she  pitied  him.  But  she 
dared  not  waken  him,  for  it  seemed  to  her  that  now 
her  touch  must  be  polluting  and  the  sudden  feeling 
of  kindness  for  him  an  unconscious  self-deception. 
Later,  when  he  arose  and  came  into  the  bedroom, 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  199 

she  feigned  sleep,  though  the  pulses  In  her  temples 
hammered  and  her  brain  was  weary  with  thoughts 
going  eternally  the  same  round.  How  had  all  this 
come  about?  Why  was  It  that  she  had  so  fallen, 
was  so  lost  ?  She  tried  to  scrutinise  every  thought, 
every  emotion,  of  the  past  months,  but  she  could 
find  no  continuity,  no  inevltableness,  no  law  for  evil 
or  good,  but  only  a  blind  and  bitter  whirl. 


XV 


There  was  no  falseness  in  her  plea  next  morn- 
ing that  she  was  ill.  Her  strained  nerves  had 
broken  down  and  she  felt  weak  and  lost.  Boister- 
ous messages  of  sympathy  came  from  below,  but 
Frances  heeded  nothing.  She  watched  Julian  as  he 
moved  about  the  room  in  kindly  ministration  and 
condemned  herself  bitterly.  But  still  she  strove  by 
a  process  of  thought  to  discern  the  interconnection 
of  the  events  and  feelings  that  had  brought  her  to 
this  pass,  and,  failing  still,  came  only  to  an  over- 
whelming sense  of  the  impermanence  of  all  things, 
of  the  perilous  fluidity  of  the  very  elements  of  hu- 
man character.  She  dismissed,  half-angrily,  the 
brittle  sophistries  of  a  will  potent,  at  all  times,  with 
no  external  aid,  to  realise  itself  in  terms  of  life. 
Then  her  thoughts  faded  phantasmally  into  broken 
images  of  monstrous  significance,  and  she  clung  des- 
perately to  Julian's  hand  in  her  rebellion  against  the 
tyranny  of  dreams.  A  physician  summoned  some- 
what later  in  the  day  made  light  of  her  illness,  but 

200 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  201 

spoke  earnestly  to  Julian  In  going  out.  She  half 
hoped  that  she  might  be  very  111  and  thus  gain  long 
days  of  quietude  and  then  a  space  of  refreshing  con- 
valescence. But  Julian  seemed  rather  ill  at  ease 
than  grave. 

"What  IS  it?"  she  asked. 

"The  doctor  says  you  may  get  up  whenever  you 
feel  strong  enough,  but  that  you  must  be  careful  of 
yourself,  because — " 

He  seemed  to  grope  for  words  and,  holding  her 
hand,  looked  away. 

"Because — ^you  are  to  become  a  mother." 

She  could  have  smiled  at  his  helplessness  before 
this  phenomenon,  so  strange  to  his  masculinity.  But 
she  was  herself  struggling  against  wave  upon  wave 
of  a  new  and  sweet  perturbation. 

"Did  you  not  know?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  hesitated.  "I  had  no  one  to  consult. 
I  suspected,  but  only  at  moments." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  for  she  wanted  to  be  alone 
with  this  thing.  She  was  glad  that  Its  end  was 
far  off,  when  the  stains  of  life  would  no  longer 
rest  so  newly  upon  her.  It  would  be  Julian's  child 
and  hers.  .  .  .  Days  passed  and  she  was  still 
too  weak  to  go  about,  but  sat  by  the  window  of  her 
sitting-room  and  looked  steadily  out  upon  the  bay. 


202  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

A  new  and  terrible  care  weighed  upon  her  which 
no  reasoning  would  put  to  rest.  The  child  would 
be  illegitimate.  She  was,  after  all,  too  firmly 
rooted  in  the  conventions  and  domesticities  of  life 
to  pass  lightly  over  this  fact.  The  anxiety  kept 
her  weak  and  languid,  she  grew  thinner  than  was 
her  wont,  and  watched  the  waters  of  the  harbour 
with  eyes  in  which  fear  dwelt.  She  ceased  entirely 
to  feel  the  beauty  of  what  she  looked  upon — either 
in  its  supreme  brightness  or  when  an  adamantine 
roof  of  slate-coloured  cloud  crept  gradually  over 
the  harbour  and  descended  slowly  upon  the  hori- 
zon, narrowing  the  strip  of  bronze  and  blue  be- 
tween the  flat  Islands  and  itself.  But  when  the 
dimness  was  complete,  then  would  she  feel,  at  mo- 
ments, a  sad  content.  Voices  floated  to  her  from 
below,  but  she  had  no  strength  to  gather  their 
meaning.  Her  sou4  was  concentrated  upon  itself 
and  saw  no  hope.  The  child  would  be  an  outcast 
and  she  could  not  avert  Its  fate,  for  she  had,  so 
tragically,  lost  all  right  of  demand  upon  Julian. 
He  cared  for  her  as  one  might  care  for  a  dazed, 
sick  child.  How  much  he  suspected  of  the  devious 
ways  Into  which  she  had  drifted  It  was  Impossible 
to  tell. 

Very  vaguely  she  had  heard  of  the  departure  of 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  203 

the  Boyds  and  Hochstetters.  But  Miss  St.  Preux, 
who  often  came  to  spend  an  hour  with  her,  had 
not  dwelt  on  the  fact.  She  dismissed  these  people 
and  their  doings  with  a  little  droop  of  her  fine,  old- 
ivory  hand.  Frances  did  not  ask  concerning  Held, 
but  she  was  sure  that  he  was  still  here.  The  be- 
lief was  confirmed,  on  a  fair  morning,  by  himself 
in  person.  He  strolled  lightly  to  her  side  of  the 
balcony,  having  stepped  upon  It  from  the  hall,  and 
stood  deliberately  poised  (he  seemed  hardly  to 
rest  on  firm  ground)  before  the  window  at  which 
Frances  sat.  He  had  assumed  an  almost  Impalpa- 
ble melancholy. 

"I  am  going  away,"  he  announced  softly.  "I 
could  not  go  without  seeing  you  once  more," 
"It  would  have  been  better  If  you  had." 
*'No;  you  are  wrong  there — oh,  entirely  wrong 
— for  it  seems  that  you  have  taken  to  heart  a  cer- 
tain brief  dream  that  received  us  for  a  little  while 
in  Its  magic  embrace.  Why  regret  these  things? 
Do  they  not  enrich  life?  And  they — cleave  no 
mark." 

Her  eyelids  trembled,  in  spite  of  herself,  under 
his  gaze.    It  was  so  utterly  clear  and  calm. 
"If  one  has  no  conscience,  no  shame    .    .    ." 
"My  dear  Frances,  why  drag  these  horrible, 


204  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

big  words  into  regions  that  lie  on  the  farther  side 
of  good  and  evil?  Can  you  define,  in  any  way,  the 
harm  on  which  you  insist?" 

She  pulled  herself  sharply  together. 

* 'Whatever  makes  one  weaker  to  resist  evil — 
that  is  bad.  Whatever  is  another  step  lower  in 
one's  fall  from  good    .    .    .'* 

"Good— good?" 

"If  you  do  not  feel  what  it  is,  no  one  can  help 
you.  But  please  go  I  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  ill 
and  weak?" 

A  faintness  was  coming  over  her.  He  went. 
But  even  then,  with  her  eyes  half-closed,  she  knew 
that  his  presence  had  evoked  in  her  a  clearer  per- 
ception of  her  sin  than  any  that  the  slow  and  silent 
hours  had  brought.  ... 

The  strength  of  her  youth  began  to  assert  itself, 
despite  the  gnawing  at  her  heart  of  pain  and  fear 
and  remorse.  But  the  stronger  she  grew,  the  more 
unbearable  the  gnawing  seemed  to  become.  The 
more  clearly  she  discerned  all  that  the  past  few 
months  had  brought  about,  the  more  it  seemed  to 
her  to  point,  step  by  step,  to  a  disintegration  of  her 
character,  and  the  gradual  acceptance  of  life  on  a 
lower  and  lower  plane  until,  but  for  an  accident, 
she  might  have  committed  an  irreparable,  unpar- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  205 

donable  sin.  She  loathed  herself,  and  was  too  in- 
expert of  the  soul's  life  to  draw  from  this  very 
loathing  the  prophecy  of  her  own  salvation.  Her 
life  with  Julian  became  a  series  of  evasions,  and 
still  the  strong  bonds  of  his  central  principle  of  lib- 
erty in  union  kept  him  silent.  Yet  he  evidently 
hungered  after  the  old,  dear  intimacy.  His  work 
was  complete;  he  had  sent  It  out  Into  the  world 
to  try  Its  fortune,  and  had  banished  the  care  of  It 
from  his  mind.  She  pitied  him  and  felt  her  pity 
to  be  an  insult ;  she  loved  him  and  thought  her  love, 
necessarily,  false ;  she  had  no  sense  of  the  extremes 
of  good  and  evil  that  co-exist  In  our  hearts.  Once 
only  during  these  strange  weeks  did  his  restraint 
break  down.  It  was  evening,  and  they  were  alone ; 
he  came  to  her  and  gathered  her  In  his  arms.  So 
sweet  It  was  to  rest  there — yet  she  repulsed  him, 
gently  but  definitely.  He  stood  before  her,  pale 
and  angryo 

"We  had  better  part,"  he  declared  abruptly. 

She  knew  that  he  did  not  mean  It,  and  was  glad 
of  the  depth  of  feeling  that  prompted  the  words. 

"Why?" 

"Because  every  purpose  of  our  union  seems 
frustrated!  I  do  not  wish  to  become  an  object  of 
disgust  and  terror  to  you." 


2o6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  came  to  him,  putting  her  hands  gently  on 
his. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  *T  love  you — more,  not  less, 
than  ever.  You  have  been  wonderfully  good  to 
me,  patient  with  my  waywardness,  forgiving.  .  .  . 
Won't  you,  for  just  a  little  while  longer,  let  me 
walk  alone?  I  want  to  regain — the  right  to  be 
loved." 

She  did  not  realise  how  terrible  her  words 
seemed. 

*'I  did  not  know  you  had  forfeited  the  right!" 

An  agony  of  suspicion  writhed  in  his  face. 

"Frances,  it  is  not  possible    .    .    ." 

She  understood. 

*'Is  it  not  possible  to  have  sinned  terribly  against 
love  and  faith  without    .    .    ." 

"Absolute  shame?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank  God!" 

"You  did  not  think    .     .     ." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  hands  In  confes- 
sion of  contrition. 

"There  are  men  who  have  no  experience,"  he 
said,  "and  they  judge  of  others  by  an  inner  vision, 
as  they  are  temperamentally  Inclined  tO'  faith  or  un- 
falth.  And  other  men,  like  me,  who  have  lived,  who 


THE   BROKEN    SNARE  207 

have  known — ^too  much,  perhaps — learn  that  there 
Is  nothing  so  lofty  nor  anything  so  base  that  it  may 
not  be  true  of  anyone — spotless  saint,  vile  sinner — 
in  all  the  infinite  variations  of  the  moral  gamut. 
They  know  that  the  purest  woman  may  fall — once 
— and  that  the  veriest  wanton  may,  for  a  moment, 
enter  heaven  and  hear  the  angels  sing.*' 

He  went  toward  the  door. 

*'You  will  forgive  me,  dear?" 

She  nodded.  Her  shame  kept  her  silent,  for 
only  the  breadth  of  a  hair  had  divided  her  from 
the  final  sin.  She  hid  her  face  when  he  was  gone 
and  yearned  for  some  lustral  waters  into  which  to 
plunge,  to  emerge  clean  in  spirit,  and  then — ^to 
seek  him. 

The  day  was  of  a  rare  gloom  and  loneliness.  It 
was  Sunday — always  a  day  of  extreme  calm  in 
Queenshaven,  but  this  time  of  an  oppressive  quiet- 
ude. The  darkness  of  afternoon  stole  in  through 
the  windows,  and  Frances  felt  the  fear  of  It  and 
of  being  alone  with  her  own  soul.  She  dressed 
in  a  grey,  nun-like  gown  and  went  out. 

The  streets  lay  in  a  haze  of  vague  melancholy 
as  in  a  Northern  Autumn,  and  Frances  walked 
along  In  the  dim  light,  unseeing.  She  could  only 
brood  over  the  restless  horror  within.     Memories 


2o8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

came  to  her — poignant,  pitiful,  cruel — ^whlch 
would  not  let  her  go,  but  enslaved  her  with  relent- 
less power,  until  one  arose  in  which  a  touch  of  heal- 
ing seemed  to  dwell.  It  was  the  memory  of  her 
girlish  longing  for  spiritual  repose  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Church.  Was  it  too  late  now,  in 
her  great  need,  to  turn  to  the  visible  embodiment 
of  the  Eternal  Love?  The  thought  seemed  won- 
derfully exalting,  and  her  immediate  impulse  car- 
ried her  along  until  she  found  herself  kneeling  in 
the  dark  nave  of  a  small  but  beautiful  Catholic 
church — one  of  the  few  basilicas  in  America.  It 
wanted  still  half  an  hour  to  the  period  of  the  ves- 
per service,  but  already  here  and  there  knelt  a  quiet, 
moveless  figure  with  eyes  fixed,  through  the  gloom, 
upon  the  crimson  glimmer  of  the  eternal  lamp  that 
threw  a  faint  ray  upon  the  mild  face  of  the  Re- 
deeming Lord,  or  with  head  bowed  in  contrition 
on  the  wooden  pew.  Frances  knelt,  too,  and  the 
heavy  scent  of  the  flowers  floated  to  her  from  the 
white  marble  altar.  The  undying  appeal  of  the 
ancient  faith,  in  its  full  rigour,  came  to  her.  Oh, 
to  cast  off  one's  burdens  here  at  the  foot  of  the 
Cross ;  to  solve,  by  one  glorious  acceptance,  all  the 
difficulties  of  life;  to  lay  down  all  sins,  all  yearn- 
ings, all  fears,  all  uncertainties;  to  be  upborne  by 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  209 

the  Eternal  Strength ;  to  rest  In  the  love  and  bound- 
less compassion  of  the  Everlasting  Arms !  All  her 
soul  melted  In  a  divine  tenderness  and  she  wept. 
If  only  the  dreamy  statue  yonder  could  quiver  Into 
life,  could  descend  and  stride  down  the  aisle;  If 
only  she  could  touch  the  garment  of  the  living 
Saviour,  and  kiss  His  feet,  and  be  made  whole! 
She  knew,  even  In  her  ecstasy,  that  without 
this  supreme  miracle  no  lasting  help  could  come 
to  her;  that  she  was  of  her  age,  weak  of  faith  and 
under  the  tyranny  of  the  troubling  intellect.  But, 
for  an  hour,  at  least,  she  had  found  rest.  .  .  . 

A  red-robed  acolyte  stole  softly  from  the  vestry 
and  passed  behind  the  silver  altar-railing.  He  knelt 
before  the  shrine  of  the  Eucharist,  and  the  light  of 
the  long  taper  which  he  held  shone  faintly  on  his 
delicate  boy's  face  and  soft  hair.  He  lit  taper 
aftei;  flickering  taper  until  the  white  altar  seemed 
dressed  In  brilliant,  yellow  gems.  Frances  stared 
at  the  mystical  flames  till  consciousness  shrunk  to 
its  lowest  ebb  and  her  soul  seemed  alone  In  the  uni- 
verse with  the  strange  altar-lights.  Then,  appar- 
ently from  far  away.  In  small  and  wistful  tones, 
floated  the  strain  of  the  hidden  organ,  and  through 
the  vestry-door  walked  to  Its  measure.  In  slow  and 
solemn  procession,  acolytes — grave  children  swing- 


210  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

ing  fuming  censers  or  bearing  tall  candles — -fol- 
lowed by  the  celebrant  priest. 

The  immemorial  mystery  of  the  Mass  enfolded 
her,  softened  her  heart,  and  through  its  accessories 
spoke  imperiously  to  her  senses.  The  candles  flick- 
ered faintly  through  cloud  after  white  cloud  of  in- 
cense that  rose  from  the  censers,  which,  as  they 
swung  to  and  fro,  clinked  softly.  Gold  glittered 
in  cruciform  lines  upon  the  mystical  vestments  of 
the  priest:  the  glitter  fascinated  her,  the  incense 
sank  heavily  upon  her  senses,  but,  deep  below,  the 
pure  emotions  were  stirred  by  the  solemn  roll  of 
the  organ  that  seemed  to  raise  her  upon  the  wings 
of  one  of  God's  great  angels,  even  to  the  foot  of 
the  Throne.  The  bell  sounded ;  the  people  bowed ; 
the  Host  soared.  Her  blood  leapt  to  greet  the 
sacred  Flesh  of  the  Divine  Presence,  and  she  knew 
a  moment  of  complete  ecstasy.  .  .  . 

She  stood  at  the  door  of  the  church,  all  her 
nerves  vibrating.  A  master-hand  had  struck  them 
into  endless  tremours.  Dream,  vision  and  divine 
gladness  vanished,  or  remained  behind  In  the  velvet 
gloom  of  the  nave:  she  was  conscious  only  of  the 
trembling  nerves,  the  senses  imperiously  summoned 
to  power,  the  resistless  call  of  her  blood.    She  had 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  211 

sought  consolation,  and  what  had  come  to  h'er  was 
the  old  fever.  So  potent  it  was  that  It  dimmed  her 
sight  to  the  beautiful  light  and  shade  of  the  Queens- 
haven  dusk,  to  the  bronzed  waters  of  the  bay,  the 
gently  waving  trees,  the  pearl  and  amber  and  crim- 
son of  the  western  sky.  For  the  clouds  had  parted 
and  the  evening  sky  looked  clear  and  fresh. 

Her  soul  was  silent.  Against  her  will  rose  from 
her  throat  tender  words  between  a  croon  and  a  sob. 
She  hurried  up  the  white  steps  that  led  to  the  por- 
tico of  the  Villa  Mercedes,  but  all  was  empty  there. 
Then  she  ascended  the  stairs,  and,  through  the  open 
door,  saw  Julian  sitting  alone  in  the  twilight.  She 
stood  still  upon  the  threshold — eager,  deep-breath- 
ing, erect. 

He  turned  to  her,  but  at  the  look  in  her  eyes  the 
words  he  was  about  to  speak  faded  Into  the  still- 
ness of  the  evening.     He  arose,  and  she  came  to 
him,  nearer  and  nearer,  until  her  hands  rested  upon 
his  shoulders.    Then  he  found  words. 
"You  have  come  home  to  me,  dearest?" 
"I  have  come  home  to  you.    .    .    ." 
The  stars  burned  over  their  second  nuptials,  and 
they  were  once  more  alone  with  each  other  In  the 
homeless  universe.     They  heard  only  the  song  of 


212  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

their  blood,  the  rhythm  of  their  pulses;  they  saw 
only  love  glimmering  under  trembling  eyelids  and 
upon  fervid  mouth.  Midnight  brought  them  no 
hint  of  an  awakening;  dawn  did  not  declare  upon 
them  the  judgment  of  the  light. 


XVI 

But  Frances  knew  that  she  was  living  merely 
the  life  of  the  body,  and  that  even  the  magic  of 
that  life  had  departed.  Indulgence  bred  indul- 
gence. They  were  both  weary  of  the  struggle  in 
their  own  hearts ;  and  so  their  existence  became  like 
that  of  most  people,  since  they  strove  no  longer 
against  the  unspiritualised  ardour  of  the  sense. 
Gradually,  thus,  little  courtesies  and  reticences  de- 
parted— signs  of  a  pure  and  imaginative  conception 
of  love — and  they  became  immersed  In  an  habitual 
practice  of  rites  now  grown  profane.  To  the  man 
and  artist — artist,  though  thwarted  and  not  fully 
articulate — this  state  of  things  involved  no  deep 
humiliation.  To  him  were  left  the  constant  and 
severe  activities  of  his  Intellect,  through  which,  for 
hours  daily,  he  rose  to  a  higher  plane.  To  her, 
whose  love  was  also  her  life  (not  aiy  portion  of  It 
whose  quality  other  aspects  might  redeem),  came 
a  dull,  throttllno"  sense  of  utter  degradation  and 

defeat. 

213 


214  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Her  girlhood  called  to  her.  Its  cloistral  dreams 
now  appeared  before  her  in  vision  as  part  of  a 
beautiful,  irrevocable  past.  Then,  at  least,  she 
had  had  her  dreams;  she  could  let  her  thoughts 
play  about  a  future  of  her  own  imaginative  crea- 
tion. Now  reality  had  robbed  her  of  any  power 
over  her  own  life.  In  dreams  alone  lay  true  free- 
dom. All  vistas  were  closed.  On  what  should  she 
exercise  desire  or  hope?  She  must  grope  on  be- 
tween the  unassailable  walls  that  had  risen  about 
her — on  to  the  sordid  and  bitter  end.  Such  are 
the  sorrows  of  youth — so  hopeless,  so  complete. 
Any  hint  of  the  fortifying  truth  that  all  things  are 
outlived  and  overlived,  that  the  human  soul  has 
an  Infinite  capacity  for  adjustment  and  readjust- 
ment— any  hint  of  this  last  fruit  of  experience  is 
rigidly  withheld. 

And  so,  for  the  second  time  since  her  flight,  she 
wrote  to  her  mother.  It  was  a  faltering  letter, 
whose  words  trembled  from  line  to  line  upon  the 
brink  of  passionate  confession  and  grief.  It  was 
not  pride  that  prevented  Frances  from  an  avowal 
of  defeat;  it  was  the  certainty — the  old,  appalling 
certainty — that  her  words  would  be  distorted  into 
something  Infinitely  below  their  Intention.  And 
yet  she  wrote  on,  wanderingly,  and  wise  eyes  might 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  215 

have  discerned  there  a  piteous  wistfulness,  a  crav- 
ing for  comprehension  and  spiritual  rest. 

Impossible  plans  suggested  themselves  to  her, 
such  as  making  a  confession  of  her  unhappiness  to 
Miss  St.  Preux.  But  at  once  her  soul  shrank  back 
In  its  humiliation.  How  should  she  formulate  her 
ignoble  cares  to  this  serene,  pure  mind,  whose  very 
existence  rebuked  her  once  again?  She  could  not 
speak  to  Julian.  He  seemed  to  her  gross,  hard, 
definitely  and  abominably  masculine.  Signs  of 
jealousy  in  him,  for  which — so  few  weeks  before — 
she  had  yearned,  now  became  hateful.  She  no 
longer  desired  to  be  possessed  or  claimed.  The 
service  of  love  was  no  longer  a  perfect  freedom, 
but  a  cruel  compulsion.  The  desire  to  escape  from 
his  unconscious  mastery  over  her  through  her  senses 
became  dominant,  and  she  sought,  helplessly  and 
blindly,  for  means  of  flight.  She  awaited  with 
growing  anxiety  an  answer  from  her  mother,  delud- 
ing herself,  against  her  better  knowledge,  with  the 
hope  that  thence  some  help  might,  after  all,  spring. 

Some  perception  of  her  state,  dim  and  uncertain, 
must  have  come  to  Julian.  He  made  efforts,  gen- 
erally futile,  to  break  through  the  barriers  of  her 
great  preoccupation.  He  was  interesting  himself 
in  the  local  history  of  Queenshaven,  spent  many 


2i6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

hours  going  through  the  library  of  the  Historical 
Society,  and  gathered  notes  with  vague  plans  of 
future  work.  He  attempted  to  draw  her  Into  the 
circle  of  his  studies.  In  vain.  Thus  arose  In  him 
a  slight  contempt  for  her  lack  of  Intellectual  inter- 
ests. He  wronged  her:  elemental  man  and  woman, 
stripped  bare  of  all  superficial  complexities,  con- 
fronted each  other  again.  In  their  eternal  enmity — 
he  striving  to  give  reality  to  the  conceptions  of  his 
intellect,  she  to  the  hopes  of  her  heart. 

It  grew  colder  In  Queenshaven.  The  days  were 
still  of  blue  and  gold,  hardly  paler  than  In  Sum- 
mer, but  mornings  and  evenings  were  cold.  The 
lower  temperature  made  itself  more  intensely  felt 
here  than  In  more  Northern  latitudes,  and  Frances 
sat  alone  before  the  small  grate,  watching  the  blue 
flames  dance  on  the  fiery  coals.  She  experienced  a 
feeling  of  mental  blindness — a  new  feeling.  She 
knew  she  could  not  see  things  as  they  really  were; 
that  she  was  often  unjust  In  her  thoughts,  erratic 
in  her  emotional  life.  But  she  could  not  rise  above 
this  perception  of  her  own  state  or  attain  to  any 
clarity  of  vision.  A  new  humility  entered  her  heart; 
not  the  old  feeling  of  humiliation,  but  a  sense  of 
her  own  faultiness  that  seemed  to  purge  her  soul. 
She  waited  for  Julian,  not  knowing  in  what  man- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  217 

ner  to  communicate  to  him  all  that  was  passing 
within  her,  but  trusting  to  the  moment^s  chance 
and  mood. 

He  came — a  little  tired  and  dispirited.  If  he 
had  spoken  first  her  words  would  have  come  with 
more  difficulty.  But  he  sat  silent,  leaning  his  head 
upon  his  hand. 

Julian,"  she  said,  **why  cannot  we  be  happy?" 

He  looked  up,  smiling  wanly. 

"What  a  question  I    If  only  I  knew  I" 

She  leaned  forward  in  her  seat. 

*'I  know  IVe  been  unreasonable  .  .  .  that 
IVe  hurt  you  often;  but  /  have  been  hurt  myself." 

He  covered  his  eyes  once  more  with  his  hand. 

*'Can*t  we  forgive  each  other?"  she  asked  all  but 
inaudibly. 

"Forgive?  forgive?  What  does  that  mean?  That 
does  not  help  us.  I  love  you,  and,  therefore,  in 
a  sense,  I  forgive  you  all  wrongdoing,  because  I 
feel  tenderly  toward  you — always.  But  does  that 
save  the  future?  Does  that  stamp  out  the  seeds 
of  discord?  Shall  we  hurt  each  other,  and  then, 
in  a  softer  mood,  forgive  each  other  again  and 
again  to  the  end  of  time?  Is  that  sane,  I  ask  you, 
and  is  it — worth  while?" 

"After  all,  then,  you  do  not  love  me?" 


2i8  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

A  profound  discouragement  seemed  to  come  over 
him. 

*'Dear,  if  you  were  only  less — a  woman.  You  do 
not  even  try  to  understand  me." 

*'But  what's  the  use  of  trying  to  understand  if 
you  will  not  forgive  me?" 

''I  forgive  you,"  he  said,  but  there  was  no  peace 
in  his  voice. 

They  were  both  silent  and  estranged.  Neither 
had  the  gift  of  facile  and  moving  speech  by  which 
to  understand  and  console  the  other.  In  both  there 
was  an  element  hard,  unyielding,  and  stonily  silent. 
Thus  began  another  period  in  which  each  seemed 
to  the  other  a  shadow  passing  and  repassing  before 
eyes  that  saw  not,  in  which  life  became  to  them  a 
weary  dumb-show  behind  which  lay  misery  and 
yearning. 

In  Frances'  consciousness  a  flame,  once  burning 
only  like  a  shadowy  gem,  burst  Into  flare  and 
seemed  with  its  fierce  glow  to  illuminate  her  whole 
nature.  Since  all  efforts  failed;  since,  despite  their 
love,  no  word  or  act  seemed  potent  over  the  grad- 
ual estrangement  between  them ;  since  all  had  come 
to  naught,  and  since  she  could  trace  her  sorrows 
to  no  visible  cause — it  came  to  her,  with  new  and 
terrible  force,  that  their  sin  was  being  visited  upon 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  219 

them;  that  all  suffering  sprang  from  the  absence 
between  them  of  the  bond  approved  and  tested  by 
the  ages  and  required  by  the  laws  of  God  and  man. 
It  was  a  blind  belief  that  came  to  her.  She  did 
not  bow  before  the  reasonableness  of  the  law,  but 
before  its  terrors  and  Its  revenge. 

She  was  not  permitted  of  her  own  will  to  give 
any  active  expression  of  her  belief.  The  brutally 
cruel  consequences  of  a  careless  moment  robbed  her 
of  power. 

Always  afterward  she  remembered  that  morn- 
ing. It  came  to  her  many  times  and  far  away  in 
dreams  of  the  night;  it  grew  to  a  phantasmal  scene 
in  which  all  details  became  exaggerated  and  mon- 
strous. .  .  .  Across  the  sunshine  of  the  Villa 
Mercedes  the  shadows  of  the  columns  fell  like  black 
shafts.  Her  eyes  were  dazzled  and  she  could  dis- 
cern in  the  brightness  of  the  street  only  a  shifting 
line  of  bluish  grey — a  postman,  but  in  her  feverish 
memories  of  that  morning,  a  fatal  messenger.  He 
came  up  the  steps  of  the  portico  and  touched  his 
cap.  Had  there  been  In  his  smile  a  strange  and 
subtle  irony?  She  remembered  his  teeth — large 
and  white,  laid  bare  by  that  mysterious  smile.  He 
took  one  from  the  package  of  letters  that  he  was 
gathering  for  the  negro  butler  on  the  porch. 


220  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

"Is  this  right?  *MIss  Frances  Garnet,  care  of 
Villa  Mercedes'?" 

She  had  made  a  step  forward;  then  had  remem- 
bered, and,  growing  pale,  had  held  back.  An  im- 
mense nausea  had  risen  In  her  breast,  and  before  her 
eyes  the  trees  and  bushes  had  danced  grotesquely. 
But  the  Inexorable  butler,  having  seen  her  move- 
ment, had  brought  the  letter  to  her.  She  had 
clutched  it.  Then,  shivering,  she  had  looked  about 
and  had  seen  upon  Mrs.  Pressley's  mobile  face  a 
deep  red  of  anger.  A  shadow  had  passed  between 
her  and  that  condemning  countenance,  a  hand  had 
been  laid  on  her  arm,  and  she  had  heard — and 
heard  forever  afterward,  as  the  one  thing  of  com- 
fort in  that  clamourous  and  garish  day — the  voice 
of  Miss  St.  Preux. 

"Go  upstairs,  my  poor  child.  They  suspected 
your  misfortune.    I'll  help  you — all  I  can." 

Frances  had  gone  to  her  room  and  lain  down  on 
the  bed.  The  horrible  sickness,  the  oppression  In 
her  breast,  the  dazzling  In  her  eyes,  had  continued. 
She  had  felt,  in  that  hour,  the  touch  of  open  shame, 
and  it  had  struck  her  down.    .    .    . 

She  never  asked,  nor  did  Julian  tell  her,  in  what 
manner  Mrs.  Pressley  communicated  to  him  the 
fact  that  under  these  distressing  circumstances  she 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  221 

could  no  longer  offer  them  the  hospitality  of  the 
Villa  Mercedes.  He  seemed,  in  truth,  unwilling  to 
discuss  the  situation,  but  went  about  with  an  air  of 
defeat.  They  were  to  go  as  soon  as  possible;  but 
he  left  all  the  final  arrangements  to  her,  going  only 
to  procure  the  tickets  against  their  departure.  He 
seemed  to  brood  confusedly  upon  many  problems, 
but  he  was  sparing  of  words.  Frances  herself  did 
not  feel  the  strength  to  enter  with  him  upon  any 
explanation.  Passing  and  repassing  the  mirrors  in 
her  rooms,  she  saw  her  pale,  drawn  face  and  the 
deep  terror  in  her  eyes.  She  felt  as  though  she 
must  hide  her  face  from  the  light  of  day,  and  creep 
away  into  some  dark,  cool  corner,  away  from  the 
seeing  eyes  and  pitiless  words  of  men.  She  read 
and  re-read  the  letter  that  had  caused  the  catas- 
trophe. She  had  not  doubted,  even  in  that  tragic 
moment,  under  the  portico,  that  it  was  from  her 
mother ;  that  only  her  mother  could  have  been  guilty 
of  a  mistake  so  crude.  Yet  she  read  the  faltering 
sentences  with  deep  emotion.  Mrs.  Garnett  was, 
evidently,  more  acutely  unhappy  than  she  had  been 
in  the  old  days ;  unhappy,  too,  with  a  dumb  wretch- 
edness unlearned  in  the  subtleties  of  grief,  and 
hence  completely  defenceless.  From  this  letter, 
too,  Frances  received  an  impression  of  her  father 


222  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

that  brought  her  the  relief  of  tears.  "Father," 
wrote  Mrs.  Garnett,  "looks  so  tired  that  I  get  wor- 
ried about  him.  He  hardly  eats;  and,  what  is 
worse,  scarcely  talks  at  all.  I  believe  that  he  longs 
to  hear  from  you,  but  forces  himself  to  say 
nothing.  .  .  ." 

They  went,  unfriended  and  alone,  saying  no 
farewells,  but  In  the  manner  of  fugitives.  Strangely 
enough  as  It  seemed  to  Frances,  though  In  truth  by 
a  common  accident,  It  was  again  the  Sequoia  that 
lay  beside  the  clamourous  pier  and  received  them. 
They  had  not  long  to  wait.  With  a  slow,  stately 
motion  the  steamer  swung  from  its  moorings  and 
passed  down  the  bay.  The  city  grew  smaller  and 
smaller  upon  the  horizon,  until  Its  houses  and  stee- 
ples looked  like  the  wooden  chalets  of  a  Swiss  toy- 
box;  the  shore-line  of  the  Islands  grew  thin  and 
faint;  the  smooth  stones  of  the  great  breakwater 
flew  behind,  and  the  ship  adventured  once  more, 
with  Its  freight  of  human  souls,  upon  the  turbulent 
sea. 

Of  late  it  was  the  passing  of  things,  whether  fair 
or  otherwise,  that  seemed  to  Frances  unspeakably 
tragic ;  and,  though  she  had  suffered  In  this  city  of 
Queenshaven,  though  she  had  moved  In  It  beset 
by  doubts  and  sorrows,  by  a  great  confusion  both  In 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  223 

outer  things  and  In  her  own  heart,  its  passing  from 
her  eyes  left  her  In  a  blank  despair.  Nor,  at  this 
moment  of  departure,  could  she  see  anything  In  the 
eye  of  her  mind  but  the  gentle  beauty  of  Its  ways, 
feel  anything  but  the  peace  of  Its  supreme  repose, 
or  call  to  memory  aught  but  the  brief  hours  of  Im- 
passioned happiness  that  had  been  hers  amid  Its 
winds  and  under  Its  great  stars. 

She  looked  at  Julian,  who  stood  next  to  her  by 
the  railing,  but  found  no  consolation  in  his  sombre 
eyes.    She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"We  have  failed — so  far,"  she  said. 

"We?  Perhaps  all  the  others  have  failed  In 
their  relations  toward  us." 

"But  what  does  it  matter?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  God, 
what  one  wants  Is  a  little  untroubled  happi- 
ness— " 

"At  any  price  ?" 

"The  price  that  all  men  pay,  and  all  women. 
How  do  you  know  that  you  are  wiser  or  better  than 
they,  that  you  should  have  the  right  to  decide  dif- 
ferently?" 

"Have  you  forgotten  .  .  ." 

"What  you  have  seen  ?    What  you  have  known  ? 
No ;  but  look  at  us,  see  what  it  has  brought  us 
your  wretched  experience." 


224  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

He  turned  to  her  coldly. 

"The  seed  of  our  failure  lay  in  your  soul — In 
your  attitude — ^not  In  our  actions.  You  never  truly 
assented  to  our  union — upon  these  terms.  You 
had  your  reticences,  your  silent  conditions;  you 
hoped,  after  all,  for  the  ordinary  domestic  hearth. 
Answer  me,  Frances;  did  you  or  did  you  not?" 

"I  have  always  hoped — " 

"And  why?" 

"Because  I  felt — felt  that  we  were  wrong,  from 
the  very  first!" 

"And  you  oppose  that  mere  feeling  to  my  experi- 
ence, to  my  arguments?" 

"Arguments,  arguments — I  will  argue  no  more." 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  stroked  her  hand. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  began  to  pace  the  deck 
with  rapid  strides. 


XVII 

Frances  sat  m  the  dingy  room  of  a  New  York 
boarding-house.  The  windows  gave  upon  a  small 
square  of  paved  yard,  upon  huge  poles  connected 
by  clothes-lines,  upon  a  single  stunted  tree  whose 
limbs  were  so  contorted  that  they  appeared  to 
writhe  in  endless  agony,  and  upon  a  narrow  space 
of  iron-grey  sky.  She  wondered,  not  for  the  first 
time,  why  Julian  had  chosen  this  place,  and  every 
answer  to  the  question  was  a  disheartening  one. 
The  house  had  that  ultimate  obscurity  which  be- 
longs to  the  perfectly  common,  touching  neither 
poverty  nor  wealth,  virtue  nor  vice :  the  house  itself, 
the  room,  the  street,  were  indistinguishable  from 
an  hundred  others.  Their  secret — ^Julian's  and 
hers — ^was  safe  here.  Ah,  that  he  should  be  so 
careful  of  it,  so  unwilling,  apparently,  to  brave  the 
slightest  external  consequence  of  their  love — this 
was  almost  the  only  thought  which  could  yet  touch 
her  heart,  so  learned  in  the  curiosities  of  grief. 

The  darkness  of  the  Northern  Winter  fell  early, 
225 


226  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

but  she  was  too  tired  to  light  the  gas.  Of  late 
Julian  had  often  absented  himself  from  her  for 
many  hours,  and  she  had  learned  to  bear  his  neglect 
with  a  dull  patience.  The  flame  and  energy  of  her 
girlhood  seemed  to  have  passed  away,  and  she  felt 
herself  becoming  a  tired,  disappointed  woman,  bear- 
ing a  hidden  shame  In  her  heart  Her  indetermi- 
nate ethical  Impulses  seemed  to  have  led  nowhither, 
all  her  hopes  to  have  failed,  all  sources  of  consola- 
tion to  have  been  sealed. 

One  pleasure  remained  to  her,  strange  and  pa- 
thetic: to  haunt,  on  early  afternoons,  the  streets 
and  squares  which  she  and  Julian  had  trod  together 
in  the  dying  Summer.  Wandering  here,  she  no 
longer  recognised  the  city  she  had  known.  It  hung 
before  her,  an  ugly,  modern  Fata  Morgana;  but 
ethereallsed  and  transfigured  by  a  miraculous  at- 
mosphere. The  ways  that  they  had  not  known 
clung  to  the  flatness  of  the  earth.  But  the  ways,  few 
as  they  were,  that  they  had  known  together  reeled  in 
the  Winter  air  under  some  solemn  enchantment. 
She  felt,  at  this  time,  no  poignancy  of  grief  or  of 
regret;  but  haunted,  with  a  strange  tranquillity, 
the  city  of  her  lost  romance.  One  thing  alone 
stirred  her  more  deeply — the  music  of  the  hurdy- 
gurdies.    They  still  played  the  same  wailing  tunes 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  227 

that  she  and  Julian  had  heard  together.  Then 
they  had  scarcely  been  articulate  to  her  ear;  now, 
like  the  scents  of  perished  days,  mournful  and 
troubling  past  endurance,  they  crept  Into  her  nerves. 

Of  human  companionship  she  had  little  and 
wanted  less.  Mrs.  Walker,  who  kept  the  board- 
ing-house, a  loud,  stout,  faded  woman,  often  came 
into  her  room,  and  Frances  bore  the  disturbing 
presence  quietly.  The  woman  came  now,  following 
immediately  her  light  knock  at  the  door.  She  wore 
a  draggled  skirt  and  a  soiled  white  jacket;  her  hair 
was  dishevelled  and  her  teeth  yellow.  She  looked 
about  her  with  eyes  at  once  hard  and  restless. 

"Aren't  you  coming  to  dinner,  Mrs.  Ware?" 

Frances  looked  up. 
,     "I  didn't  know  the  bell  had  rung." 

Mrs.  Walker  shook  her  large  head  and  her  eyes 
glistened. 

"Yes,  dearie,  I  know  the  feeling.  We  all  have 
troubles.  But  you  mustn't  forget  your  dinner. 
You're  not  as  bad  off  as  me." 

Frances  submitted. 

"You  have  had  sorrows?" 

"Gracious !  I  never  thought  when  Mr.  Walker 
was  alive  that  I'd  have  to  keep  a  boarding-house 
and  drudge  for  others.     And  my  daughters  have 


228  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

left  me — both  of  them  treat  me  coldly.  Now,  can 
you  understand  that,  Mrs.  Ware  ?  Can  you  under- 
stand such  heartlessness  ?" 

Tears  rolled  down  accustomed  grooves  in  the 
woman's  face.  In  spite  of  them,  there  seemed  in 
her  tone  something  mechanical,  as  though  she  re- 
lated her  sorrows  habitually  and  In  the  same  words. 

"When  Mr.  Walker  was  alive,"  she  went  on, 
"things  were  different.  He  was  a  noted  lawyer, 
you  know,  and  of  a  good  family — one  of  the  best 
families  in  New  York,  counted  among  the  swellest 
people.  We  used  to  live  on  Grammercy  Park.  And 
when  he  came  home  in  the  evening  we  used  to  sit 
in  the  drawing-room  and  smoke.  He  liked  me  to 
smoke.  He  used  to  say  It  gives  a  man  a  feeling  of 
companionship.  We  used  to  be  so  cosy  before  the 
fire — and  now  I  have  to  go  and  attend  to  my  board- 
ers; and  Kate^ — that's  my  oldest  daughter — you 
ought  to  see  her,  Mrs.  Ware;  she's  so  lovely,  and 
I  love  her,  however  much  she  neglects'  me^ — now 
Kate  comes  to  see  me  once  in  six  months-  and  asks 
me  if  she  can  lend  me  some  money.  Isn't  it  hard? 
And  it  all  came  suddenly — overnight." 

Frances  tried  to  murmur  a  consolatory  phrase, 
but  Mrs.  Walker  shook  her  head. 

"You're  young,  Mrs.  Ware,  and  there  are  things 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  229 

ahead  of  you.  For  me  everything  Is  finished — ^just 
finished  and  over.** 

Frances  thought  of  her  mother,  and  touched  the 
woman's  hand. 

**You  don't  know;  some  unexpected  hope  may 
come  .    .    ." 

Mrs.  Walker  shook  her  head  dolefully. 

*'No,  no,  it's  too  late.  But  come  and  eat  your 
dinner." 

Frances  was  about  to  go,  when  Julian  came  in. 
He  nodded  a  curt  dismissal  to  Mrs.  Walker. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "you  shouldn't  hold  Intimate 
conferences  with  such  a  woman.  There's  an  unclas- 
sifiable  moral  shabbiness  about  her." 

"I  did  not  seek  her.  But  even  had  I  done  so — 
what  then?  You  are  not  very  careful  to  prevent 
my  being  lonely!" 

He  threw  himself  Into  a  chair  and  sighed. 

"I  suppose  you  are  right;  I  suppose  so." 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Will  you  go  out  with  me  this  evening — now?" 

"If  you  really  wish  It.'* 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  it  will  be  a  change  for  you. 
I — I  have  affairs — of  various  kinds  that  keep  me 
late.    It's  a  pity  you  have  no  friends.'* 


230  THE    BROKEN   SNARE 

"What  friends  can  a  woman  in  my  position 
have?" 

"I  thought  we  had  silently  agreed  to  leave  that 
subject  alone !" 

"Perhaps,  Julian.  The  question  is:  will  it  leave 
us  alone?" 

He  got  up  and  walked  the  room  from  end  to  end. 

"My  dear,  I'm  tired  and  nervous.  Let  us  go  out 
together,  but  let  us  have  no  discussion.  For  God's 
sake,"  he  burst  out  in  sudden  wrath,  "no  discus- 
sion!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  astonishment.  Per- 
haps she  ought  not  to  go;  but  the  thought  of  the 
long  evening  in  that  dingy  room  oppressed  her. 
She  put  on  her  hat  and  gloves  and  they  started  out. 

They  took  the  subway  down-town,  for  Julian 
seemed  to  avoid  the  places  which  they  had  visited 
of  old  In  the  first  fervour  of  their  golden  passion, 
and  Frances  gladly  permitted  herself  to  be  directed. 
...  It  was  a  relief  from  thought  and  care. 
At  Seventy-second  Street  they  left  the  train  and 
emerged,  in  a  moment,  into  the  large,  clear  space 
at  the  crossing  of  Broadway  and  Amsterdam  Ave- 
nue. Here  all  objects  stood  out  with  a  clarity  as 
definite  as  In  daylight,  but  the  silvery  pallour  of  the 
electric  illumination  gave  them  an  air  of  frailness 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  231 

and  artificiality.  The  domes  of  palaces,  the  spires 
of  churches,  lay  pale  and  flat  against  the  dusky 
sky,  as  the  pinnacles  of  a  painted  city  In  the  white 
calcium  light  of  the  stage.  In  the  strange  bright- 
ness of  this  scene,  amid  its  soft,  swift  movement, 
there  came  to  Frances,  remembering  her  irremedi- 
able sorrows,  a  haunting  sense  of  the  fragile  con- 
vention by  which,  from  the  nocturnal  city.  Its  revel- 
lers strive  to  exile  a  consciousness  of  sickness  and 
sorrow,  of  the  gaunt  face  of  life  and  the  ineluctable 
shadow  of  death.  Upon  the  faces  of  the  men  and 
women  whom  they  passed  she  seemed  to  discern 
a  strange  and  heartless  smile — a  smile  that  symbol- 
ised the  spirit  of  the  scene  and  of  the  hour,  so  avid 
of  nerves  trembling  like  the  strings  of  a  tortured 
violin,  so  conscious  of  Its  rejection  of  care  and  Its 
surrender  to  the  lure  of  brief  joy  and  transitory 
loveliness.  These  people,  modern,  practical,  alert, 
had  entered  for  a  space  their  land  of  faery — a  land 
beyond  the  confines  of  good  and  evil,  beyond  the 
shores  of  greed  and  toil,  isolated  from  the  common 
earth  and  lit  by  silver  suns.  And  Frances,  unable 
to  throw  off  the  thought  of  her  cares,  was  angered 
at  this  fleeting  mockery  and  Its  participants.  What 
right  had  men  to  make  merry  while  there  was  In  the 
world  such  unhapplness  as  hers?  even  such  woe  as 


232  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

that  of  the  drab  woman  in  the  up-town  boarding- 
house,  whose  husband  death  had  stolen  from  her, 
and  whose  children  life? 

Walking  away  from  the  square  into  the  darker 
streets  seemed  to  Frances  very  much  like  better 
times,  so  near,  and  yet,  in  a  disastrous  sense,  so 
distant.  The  shadows  of  the  tall  houses  and  of 
the  Elevated  structure  on  Columbus  Avenue  quieted 
her  nerves.  She  yearned  to  say  to  Julian :  ''Why 
cannot  we  lay  aside  this  corroding  discontent,  these 
strange  woes,  and  be  happy,  simply  and  quietly,  in 
the  common  way,  as  all  men  are?  I  will  love  you, 
work  for  you.  Only  give  me  peace!"  But  she 
knew  that  his  m.ood  forbade  such  words,  that  they 
would  not  soothe,  but  only  irritate  him ;  that  Inner 
defeat  had  made  him  stubborn  and  unyielding. 
They  walked,  with  apparent  almlessness,  up-town, 
and  passed  the  Museum  of  Natural  History.  Then, 
suddenly,  Julian  turned  to  her. 
•"Are  you  hungry?'' 

"A  little." 

"I  forgot  that  you  had  no  dinner  at  the  house. 
Vm  not  hungry,  only  thirsty." 

He  took  her  to  a  little,  white  restaurant,  full  of 
mirrors,  on  Columbus  Avenue,  and  they  sat  down 
at  a  small  marble-topped  table.     He  ordered  for 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  233 

her  a  slight  refection  and  for  himself  a  bottle  of 
Burgundy,  of  which  he  drank  glass  after  glass 
In  rapid  succession.  His  face  became  flushed  and 
his  eyes  softened.  One  of  his  rare  hours  of  com- 
munication came  to  him. 

*Trances,  did  I  speak  harshly  to  you  a  while 
ago?"  He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  "It  is 
merely  an  effect  of  jangled  nerves.  I  did  not  know 
what  that  meant — once.  But,  you  see^ — ^you  must 
see — the  maddening  Intellectual  confusion  that  has 
come  upon  me  I  To  choose  the  path  that  seems  to 
one  so  Inevitably  right;  to  seek  to  escape  thereby 
all  the  hemming,  harrowing,  degrading  pettiness 
of  life;  In  a  word,  to  choose  love  and  work  Instead 
of  vile  domesticities  and  middle-class  preoccupa- 
tions— and  then — ^to  fail,  to  suffer  shipwreck,  to 
go  under,  in  a  sense — !" 

He  drank  more  wine,  thirstily,  savagely. 

"And  now?''  he  asked. 

Frances  gathered  herself  together. 

"Conform!"  she  said. 

"Never — and  it  is  you'  who  have  made  conform- 
ity through  marriage  impossible.  Had  you  entered 
upon  our  union  without  any  subtle  reservations,  had 
you  given  it  a  fair  trial,  and  had  we  then  failed — 
perhaps !    But  you  sowed  the  seed  of  ruin  from  the 


234  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

first,  and  you  cannot  now  reap  the  fruit  of  your 
desire." 

"Then  you  have  come  to — hate  me?" 

He  clenched  his  fists. 

"There,  again,  is  an  utter  confusion  of  thought. 
It  is  not  a  question  of  love  or  hate,  but  of  the 
method  of  one's  life." 

"And  do  you  think  that  any — good  woman 
would  have  entered  that  union  without  reserva- 
tion?" 

"I  did  think  so." 

"You  are  wrong,  Julian;  utterly  wrong.  No 
woman  who  had  entered  it  freely  would  have  been 
worth  having." 

"Why?" 

"I  can't  tell  you.  I  can't  give  you  reasons  that 
would  appeal  to  your  mind.    But  I  know  it." 

He  sneered. 

"Our  mental  processes*  are  strangely  different." 

She  almost  feared  him  at  this  moment — feared 
In  him  the  merciless  intellect  that  would  square  the 
living  world  with  Its  own  conclusions,  however 
hearts  ached  or  nerves  trembled,  or  body  and  soul 
found  only  death  in  life. 

"There  Is  one  other  solution,"  she  said.  "I  can 
go  home." 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  235 

He  laid  his  hand  on  hers  In  the  old,  dear  way. 

**I  want  you,  Frances." 

"But  on  your  own  terms?" 

"Yes;  I  can't  help  It.  That's  the  way  Vm  made." 

"And  you  would  let  me  break  myself  to  pieces 
against  that  condition?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  strange  blending  of  ten- 
derness and  hardness. 

"I  suppose  so." 

This  was  the  first  time  In  many  weeks  that  they 
had  probed  the  depths  of  their  lives,  and  no  word 
of  clearness  had  been  spoken.  As  they  walked 
back  slowly  and  the  lines  of  yellow  gas-lamps  rolled 
away  before  them  like  a  weird  luminous  ribbon, 
Frances  felt  more  than  ever  as  though  she  lived  in 
a  turbid  dream.  Julian  pressed  her  arm  from  time 
to  time,  but  In  his  very  tenderness  she  seemed  to 
feel  an  element  of  the  unrelenting.  Yet  he  had 
been  kind  In  that  he  had  never,  by  word  or  look, 
referred  to  the  strange  moral  confusion  of  her  epi- 
sode with  Held.  His  heart,  then,  was  hers;  only 
the  stubborn  mind,  fortified  by  memory  in  its  work- 
ings, was  unbending. 

They  found  the  house,  upon  their  return,  in  con- 
fusion. The  street-door  was  open,  and  heavy  foot- 
steps sounded  on  the  stairs.    Julian  went  ahead  to 


236  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

see  what  had  caused  the  disturbance.  He  came 
back  In  a  moment. 

"It  seems  that  Mrs.  Walker  has  taken  an  over- 
dose of  morphine.  She's  unconscious  and  they've 
sent  for  a  doctor." 

"Is  any  one  with  her?" 

"Miss  Godkln." 

Frances  remembered  the  tall,  pale,  Ill-looking 
woman  who  had  come  to  the  house  recently,  but 
who  rarely  appeared  at  meals. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  asked,  "that  It  would  be 
kind  for  me  to  go?" 

"Kind?  No!  What  can  you  do  for  her ?"  But 
Frances  was  on  her  way. 

She  found  the  woman  stretched  on  a  bed — ^yel- 
low, ghastly,  tragically  hideous.  The  flare  of  a 
single  jet  of  gas  seemed  to  give  the  bare  room  an 
unnatural  light.  Miss  Godkin  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  clasping,  with  thin  fingers,  a  heavy  cross 
of  plain  gold  which  hung  from  her  neck.  Frances 
spoke  softly. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 

Miss  Godkin  shook  her  head. 

"It's  not  very  bad  this  time.  .  .  ." 

"This  time?'* 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  237 

"Yes.  Did  you  not  know  that  Mrs.  Walker  un- 
fortunately takes  morphine  ?"  The  pale  eyes  rested 
oddly  on  Frances.  "IVe  known  her  long  .  .  . 
come  to  her,  left  her,  taken  up  the  burden  once 
more ;  but  there's  little  hope.  She  started  long  ago ; 
but  since  her  husband  left  her — " 

"Left  her  ?    But  she  told  me  he  was  dead  I" 

"Yes,  yes.  She  tries  to  comfort  herself  so  .  .  . 
by  a  make-believe.  The  consciousness  of  her  guilt 
rests  heavily  upon  her."  Again  the  thin  hands 
sought  the  golden  cross.  "She  refuses  to  accept  a 
truer  consolation." 

"And  her  children  left  her  for  the  same  reason?" 

"Yes." 

"It  seems  hard." 

"The  wages  of  sin.  ...  It  was  a  miserable  busi- 
ness.   The  man  left  her  .   .   .   she  hates  him  now 

.  .  .  and  yearns  for  her  husband  and  her  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  Here's  the  doctor,  Mrs.  Ware." 

Frances  felt  herself  dismissed.  She  went  quickly 
to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  She  could  not  put  out  of 
her  heart  and  brain  the  scene  she  had  just  left — ^the 
pale,  yellowish  room;  the  corpse-like  figure  on  the 
bed,  and  that  other  cold  face  bending  above.  She 
thought  of  the  wretched  story,  the  wretched  con- 


238  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

solation,  the  utter,  bleak  hopelessness  that  must 
inhabit  that  weary,  wayward  soul.  Here,  as  every- 
where and  always,  the  free  following  of  the  heart's 
desire,  the  defiance  of  law  and  custom  and  the  an- 
cient compacts  of  man,  had  brought  ruin.  Was  It 
a  brutal  accident,  a  violation  of  the  serene  order 
of  the  universe?  Had  this  woman  come  to  an  end 
so  bitter  merely  because  men  must  impose  their  will 
upon  all  who  defy  them  ?  It  seemed  incomprehen- 
sible that  the  breaking  of  an  external  law,  a  law 
made  and  imposed  by  man,  however  useful,  should 
necessarily  entail  a  penalty  so  awful  I  Why  had 
this  woman's  children  no  charity  for  her?  why  did 
they  follow  the  cold  way  of  the  world  and  leave  her, 
who  had  borne  them,  desolate  .  .  .  ?  In  the  watches 
of  the  night  Frances  saw  before  her  the  shape  of  a 
great  terror.  Were  not  she  and  Julian,  even  now, 
at  the  beginning  of  their  punishment,  because  they, 
too,  had  broken  the  law?  Were  they  not  reaping 
discord,  pain,  confusion?  Why  must  it  be  so?  why? 
She  looked  upon  the  sleeping  form  of  him  who 
was  not  her  husband  and  seemed  to  see  upon  his 
face  the  shadow  of  troubling  dreams  and  fateful 
premonitions.  But  they  might  yet  save  themselves 
— there  was  yet  time  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  239 

— and  Frances  determined  that  she  would  put  pride 
away  from  her,  for  his  sake  and  hers,  and  for  the 
sake  of  the  new  life  beating  under  her  heart,  and 
plead  with  him  on  the  morrow  for  their  common 
salvation. 


XVIII 

But  she  could  not  carry  out  her  plan.  For  soon 
after  the  dawn  a  prodigious  ringing  was  heard  at 
the  house-door,  and  a  telegram  was  brought  up.  It 
was  from  Dr.  Garnett,  and  informed  Frances  that 
her  mother  was  dangerously  ill.  She  felt  herself 
grow  pale  and  tremble.  She  realised  swiftly  that, 
in  the  natural  order  of  things,  such  an  event  was 
only  to  be  expected,  her  mother's  body  being  weak 
and  overworn.  But  Frances  had  never  permitted 
herself — such  was  her  vital  repulsion  to  the  idea 
of  decay  or  death — to  dwell  upon  the  last,  grave 
end  of  our  nature.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  dazed  and 
forlorn.  She  could  not  cry  or  utter  her  grief ;  but, 
drawing  up  her  knees,  she  rested  her  head  on  them 
in  mute  misery.  The  silence  was  broken  by  Julian's 
voice. 

** Aren't  you  going?" 

She  looked  up. 

•Tes   .   .   .   nowl" 

She  sprang  from  the  bed  and  began  to  dress  rap- 
idly.   She  heard  Julian  speak  as  from  afar. 

240 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  241 

"I  suppose  you  will  sleep  there,  too.  That  will 
be  best.  I  shall  drop  in  every  day  to  see  you  and 
to  find  out  how  your  mother  Is.  Don't  you  think 
that  will  be  the  best  plan?" 

She  turned  around  to  him  slowly. 

*Tou  are  glad,  Julian?" 

His  voice  showed  irritation. 

*'Glad?" 

"Of  this  chance  to — get  rid  of  me.  You  have 
no  compassion    ...    no  love   .    .    ." 

Sobs  shook  her  whole  frame. 

**My  mother  may  be  dying  at  this  moment,  and 
it  is  I  who  have  helped  to  kill  her — I — and  you  I 
And  your  only  thought  is  that  you — '*^ 

"Will  be  freed  for  a  while  from  hourly  perplex- 
ity and  torture  ?  Yes.  That  fact  doesn't  make  me 
any  less  sorry  for  Mrs.  Garnett's  illness.  But  it 
is  not  my  fault  that  I  feel  so.    It  is  yours." 

It  seemed  to  her  that,  at  this  moment,  she  could 
bear  no  more,  and  with  the  thought  a  great  calm 
came  upon  her.  She  washed  her  eyes  and  continued 
to  dress.  When  she  was  ready  to  go  she  turned  to 
Julian. 

"Goodbye." 

"Goodbye." 

He  wanted  to  kiss  her,  but  she  drew  back  and 


242  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

passed  swiftly  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house 
into  the  grey,  dawn-lit  street.  Here  there  was  si- 
lence; here  she  was,  for  a  space,  alone  with  her 
own  soul.  She  looked  up  at  the  faintly  coloured 
sky,  at  the  grey  houses;  and  from  this  subdued 
quietude  she  gathered  strength  to  go  bravely  into 
the  face  of  danger  and  sorrow  and,  perhaps,  re- 
proach. 

But  when  she  turned  into  the  well-known  street 
where  so  large  and  momentous  a  portion  of  her 
girlhood  had  been  passed,  and  when  she  thought 
of  the  circumstances  of  her  return,  she  could  have 
wept  aloud.  She  hung  back,  in  sudden  fear,  hardly 
daring  to  walk  the  few  remaining  steps.  A  force, 
almost  physical  in  its  violence,  seemed  to  hold  her 
back.  It  was  surely  the  bitterest  path  her  feet  had 
ever  trod.  .  .  .  She  entered  the  familiar  door 
and  climbed  the  stairs,  still  covered  by  the  old, 
shabby  carpets.  At  every  landing  she  stopped  to 
rest,  and  heard,  in  the  stillness  of  the  house,  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  When  she  came  to  the  door 
of  the  flat  she  rang  the  bell.  And  this  simple  action 
caused  her  so  violent  an  effort  that  it  was  as  if  the 
very  roots  of  her  being  were  rent.  She  stood  very 
still  and  heard  slow  footsteps  approach  in  the  hall- 
way.   Then  the  door  opened  and  her  father  stood 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  243 

before  her — grey,  bent,  and  old.  She  stood  there, 
trembling  and  ashamed — a  child  once  more.  He 
stretched  out  his  arms. 

"Daughter  I'^ 

"Father  I'' 

Then  he  took  her  face  between  his  hands,  look- 
ing upon  her  long  and  earnestly. 

"You*,  too,  have  suffered.** 

Speechless,  she  nodded. 

"Yes,  yes — ,**  he  went  on,  and  his  eyes  seemed 
to  look  far  away — "you,  too,  have  suffered,  and 
suffering  wipes  out  much  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  . 
everything.  ..." 

He  had  drawn  her  into  the  little  hall,  holding 
her  close  to  him. 

"And  mother?"  she  asked. 

He  seemed,  for  a  minute,  tb  have  almost  for- 
gotten. 

"She  IS  sick,  child;  sick  unto  death.  She  will 
be  at  peace  soon.    Be  very  gentle  with  her." 

She  could  not  understand  this  strange  detach- 
ment, or  the  dreamy  quietness  of  his  manner;  but 
she  was  soothed  and  comforted.  He  led  her  in 
where  her  mother  sat  in  an  invalid-chair,  looking 
small  and  old.  Her  body  seemed  to  have  shrunken 
to  half  Its  natural  size;  her  skin  was  discoloured  by 


244  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

yellow  blotches;  her  eyes  apparently  vacant.  Fran- 
ces knelt  before  her  and  took  her  hand.  Mrs. 
Garnett's  head  twitched. 

"Is  it  you,  Fanny?"  she  whispered.  **I  was  just 
dozing.    Father  said  he  would  send  for  you." 

"Yes,  of  course,  and  .  .  .  mamma  .  .  .  aren't 
you  a  little  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Glad  to  see  you  ?"  Her  voice  had  In  It  a  shadow 
of  Its  old  querulousness.  "Yes;  I  told  father  to 
send  for  you  weeks  ago — ^weeks  ago.  ..." 

Frances  looked  up. 

"Why  did  you  not  send  for  me,  father?" 

He  looked  steadily  Into  her  eyes. 

"I  had  hoped  that  you  would  come — freely — of 
your  own  impulse;  but  I  now  see  that  It  was  not 
hardness  of  heart  that  kept  you  from  us,  but  unhap- 
plness.    Am  I  right?" 

She  arose  and  went  to  him. 

"You  do  understand,  father." 

"And  does  It  comfort  you,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  so  much  .  .  .  more  .  .  .  more  than  I 
can  ever  tell  you  I" 

"Then   .    .    .    some  day   ...   we  will  talk." 

She  nodded  as  he  turned  to  go  from  the  room. 
At  the  door  he  stopped  and  looked  upon  her  once 
again.    That  look,  too,  she  understood.    It  was  a 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  245 

summons  to  do  her  duty,  her  whole,  last  duty,  with- 
out swerving  or  complaint. 

It  was  no  light  or  easy  task  that  she  had  under- 
taken. She  was  not  strong  with  the  repressed  en- 
ergy of  old,  and  the  long  days  and  nights  of  watch- 
ing wore  upon  her.  Even  when  wakefulness  was 
not  necessary  she  found  sleep  difficult.  In  the  sick- 
room a  single  light  burned  dimly,  and  in  her 
troubled  drowsiness  the  events  of  the  past  months 
stalked  before  Frances  in  phantasmal  procession. 
The  walks  in  New  York;  the  sunshine  of  Queens- 
haven,  now  glaring,  in  her  imagination,  beyond  en- 
durance; Held's  face,  large,  distorted,  and  white 
as  leprosy;  and,  finally,  these  later  days  of  dim, 
uncertain  sorrow — all  shaped  themselves  before 
her,  between  the  narrow  walls  of  the  little  room 
wherein  her  mother  lay  or  sat  breathing  heavily 
and  struggling  weakly  against  mortal  ill.  She  would 
start  violently  from  such  dreams  and  be  a  little  glad 
of  the  old,  familiar  things  about  her;  would  even 
touch  them  to  reassure  herself  that  she  was  here — 
here  with  sorrow  and  sickness;  but  safe,  at  last, 
from  the  hourly  combat.  Thus,  gradually,  a  feel- 
ing of  relief  came  upon  her,  and,  amid  work  and 
watching,  restfulness.  She  did  not  know  until  now 
how  very  tired  she  had  been;  and,  like  a  bird  trav- 


246  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

elling  over  silver  leagues  of  unbroken  Ice,  she  was 
grateful  for  a  single  branch  that  the  pitiless  Winter 
had  left.  Her  only  fear  now  was — a  fear  that 
broke  with  sudden  force  upon  her  brief  intervals 
of  rest — that  the  peace  and  quietude  would  end,  and 
that  she  would  be  driven  forth  once  more  from  these 
dim  rooms  into  the  glare*  of  the  world  and  the  har- 
rying of  its  problems. 

Julian  kept  his  promise.  During  the  early  after- 
noon hours  he  would  come  and  insist  that  she  take 
a  few  turns  with  him  in  the  street,  asserting  that 
she  needed  air.  But  Frances,  not  without  a  pang 
for  him,  knew  that  he  could  not,  in  spite  of  his  con- 
victions and  his  courage,  look  into  her  father's  thin, 
grey  face  without  a  feeling  of  shame.  Julian  met 
the  imputation,  which  she  half-silently  made,  resch 
lutely. 

*Tou  are  quite  right.  One  can't  shake  off  all 
one's  inherited  instincts  In  a  single  lifetime  or  a 
portion  of  one.  I  feel  that  I  have  wronged  your 
father ;  I  know  that  I  have  not.  I  didn't — in  the 
old,  sentimental,  romantic  phrase — take  you.  You 
came  to  me — one  equal  to  the  other." 

"Are  you  trying  to  persuade  yourself?"  she  asked 
suddenly. 

His  eyes  darkened. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  247 

'^Hardly.  That's  not  a  habit  of  mine." 
She  could  not  fully  trust  the  suspicion  that  had 
come  to  her.  Were  his  elaborate  intellectual  de- 
fences weakening?  Had  something  of  her  own 
emotional  attitude  come  to  him?  She  could  not 
dwell  upon  the  matter  in  her  thoughts,  for  a  greater 
preoccupation  was  upon  her,  and  she  felt  daily  as 
if  even  this  half-hour  with  Julian  was  stolen  from 
the  sacred  trust.  And,  as  the  slow  weeks  dragged, 
and  she  became  more  and  more  immersed  in  her 
homely  cares,  as  she  readjusted  herself,  so  peace- 
fully and  gladly  now,  to  the  conditions  of  her  old 
life,  he  seemed  to  become  strange  to  her  and  de- 
tached. She  ceased,  almost  unconsciously,  to  in- 
quire into  his  doings,  and  even  the  rare  days  on 
which  he  did  not  come  hardly  stirred  her  to  a  new 
sense  of  their  relations  and  their  love. 

Mrs.  Garnett  did  not  become  worse  as  rapidly 
as  her  husband  had  feared.  But,  under  the  pres- 
sure of  disease  and  age,  her  faculties  seemed  slowly 
to  drift  from  her.  And  yet  this  spectacle,  painful 
as  it  was,  seemed  not  so  tragic  to  Frances  as  the 
thoughts  that  came  to  her  mother  in  intervals  of 
mental  life.  Here,  In  the  shadow  of  Eternity,  if 
the  falling  veil  lifted  for  an  hour,  the  old  woman 
would  complain  that  she  could  no  longer  rule  the 


248  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

material  affairs  of  the  little  household;  she  would 
insist  upon  seeing  the  simple  provisions  that  had 
been  purchased,  and  criticise  them  with  something 
of  her  old  energy.  Frances  felt  herself  powerless 
to  avert  the  attitude  In  her  mother  and  the  words 
that  stung  her  to  the  quick.  Who  was  she  to  seek 
to  lead  anyone  in  the  way  of  the  spirit?  Had  she 
the  right  even  to  feel,  and,  in  spite  of  herself,  to 
condemn?  Through  the  silent  method  of  commu- 
nication that  had  grown  up  between  herself  and  her 
father  of  late,  she  told  him  of  her  pain.  He  fol- 
lowed her  out  of  the  room  and  stood  beside  her  in 
the  little  kitchen. 

"Do  you  not — pity  the  blind?" 

Her  old  impatience  flashed  out. 

"Were  you  always  so  long-suffering  and  chari- 
table?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  takes  years  and  sorrows — many  sorrows.  It 
takes,  above  all,  a  good  dose  of  failure^ — even  if 
the  failure  is  only  worldly.  It  takes,  in  a  high 
sense,  the  surrender  of  hope." 

"That's  incomprehensible  to  me." 

"At  your  age — it  must  be,  whatever  you  have 
suffered.  You  still  see,  from  every  valley,  the  far 
blue  hills.    You  will  probably  find — though  I  hope 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  249 

'not — that  the  vision  and  the  bleeding  feet  and  the 
consolation  of  a  brave  journey  are  all  we  ever  pos- 
sess. The  hills  themselves  come  no  nearer.  As 
we  go  on,  our  hopes  fall  and  our  dreams  wither,  and 
those  who  are  dear  to  us  disappoint  or  forsake  us  ; 
but  we  forgive  them,  knowing  that  we,  too,  have 
not  only  forsaken  others,  but  so  often — ^what  Is 
much  worse — our  own  best  selves.  And  so  we  learn 
to  be  charitable  with  a  boundless  charity,  and  pa- 
tient as  the  earth  and  the  stars  themselves." 

"And  what  does  It  all  lead  to?" 

"The  desire  to  know  that  Is  the  most  difficult 
desire  to  lay  aside.    But  that,  too-,  must  be  done." 

"We  can  bear  a  thing  without  knowledge — ^yes. 
But,  father,  we  must  act!" 

"You  are  thinking  of  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

The  old  man's  blue  eyes  assumed  the  far-away 
look  that  she  had  seen  in  them  of  late. 

"Don't  let  us  speak  of  that  yet — not  yet.  Unless 
you  must  take  some  decisive  action  at  once?" 

"No.  But  why  wait?  IVe  had  no  one  to  whom 
to  carry  my  troubles." 

"You  have  now,  dear  daughter;  and  yet,  I  coun- 
sel you  to  wait  a  little  while,  to  wait  until  you  are 
quieter,  still  quieter." 


250  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

She  sank,  in  truth,  Into  a  half-dreamy  peace.  Mrs. 
Garnett  seemed,  despite  her  weakness,  to  cling  to 
life  so  tenaciously  that  the  sting  of  an  immediate 
anxiety  disappeared  and  day  followed  quiet  day  In 
healing  monotony.  Frances  found  that  the  same 
circle  of  Insignificant  tasks  gently  absorbed  her 
thoughts,  so  strong  and  poignant  of  late,  and  she 
likened  herself  to  one  who  had  fled  from  the  turbu- 
lence of  life  Into  some  cloistral  isolation  where  the 
soul  is  sustained  by  an  unvaried  chain  of  peaceful 
observances.  In  the  evening,  the  day's  work  over, 
she  would  sit  with  her  father  near  the  familiar 
lamp,  reading  or  letting  her  thoughts  wander  across 
the  book,  Into  the  distance  of  dreams.  The  fevered 
visions  of  her  flight,  her  passionate  experiences,  her 
final  shame — these  gradually  softened  and  then  fled, 
and  in  their  place  came  a  sense  of  the  unreality  of 
all  that  had  passed.  It  withdrew  itself  from  her— 
protected  so  securely  in  the  grey  quietude  of  home 
— until,  at  times,  a  pang  came  that  a  dim  forgetful- 
ness  could  so  soon  creep  over  love  and  suffering  and 
regret. 

Her  talks  with  Julian — rarer  and  briefer  now — ' 
became  constrained  and  almost  conventional.  De- 
cember snow-storms  and  biting  cold  made  walking 
almost  Impossible,  and  he  still  hesitated  to  enter  the 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  251 

House.  She  asked  him  of  his  work,  and  he  told  her 
that  he  had  done  little,  that  his  days  seemed  to  pass 
in  languid  wandering  and  futile  attempts;  but  en- 
ergy and  even  the  desire  for  work  seemed  to  have 
left  him.  He  spoke  of  these  things  like  one  groping 
In  darkness. 

"My  whole  life  is  disorganised,  broken — some- 
thing has  snapped.  I  can't  settle  down  to  any  mat- 
ter of  Impersonal  Interest.  I've  simply  lost,  Intel- 
lectually, the  Will  to  Live.  Vm  getting  to  the 
point  of  self-contempt." 

She  was  In  a  clearer  mood. 

"And  you  resent  it  to  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  calmly. 

"Yes.  I  suppose  it's  bitterly  unjust.  But,  I  was 
just  beginning  to  see  my  way  In  my  work;  and  then 
comes — the  sexual  Interest,  embodied  in  you,  and 
there  follows  dislntegrajtion,  ruin — death.  The  In- 
justice Is  not  Individual,  though;  woman  is  the  en- 
emy of  man's  work.'* 

"Isn't  that  one  reason — if  it's  true  at  all — ^why 
society  has  established  certain  rules?" 

"Within  these  rules  the  destruction  is  most 
fatal." 

Tears  came  into  her  eyes — tears  of  despair  and 
of  defeat.     He  seemed  unbending,  unpersuadable. 


25^  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Death  would  find  him  unchanged.    Then  her  grief 
turned  to  anger. 

"If  you  think  that  I  have  ruined  your  life,  robbed 
you  of  the  power  to  work — go !  go  I" 

He  smiled. 

"You've  learned  very  little,  after  all.  You  say 
'go'  and  imagine  the  word  to  have  any  meaning. 
Take  out  of  my  heart  the  memory  of  you,  rob  my 
senses  of  the  yearning  for  you!  Then  tell  me  to 
go.    Until  then — it  is  a  mockery." 

She  clasped  her  hands. 

"I  can  go,  Julian !" 

"I  doubt  it!  You're  in  the  same  boat.  Nature 
doesn't  do  her  work  half-way  with — ^picked  ma^ 
terial — ^like  ourselves.  We're  inextricably  bound 
up  in  each  other.  Our  very  nerves  have  suffered 
a  change,  passed  into  each  other.  .  .  .  There  are 
no  words  for  the  process.  We're  in  for  it — in  some 
form — for  life. I" 

V    His  face  softened  a  little ;  then  he  went  on : 
)    "Go  upstairs,  dear,  dear,  and  I'll  stay  away  for 
a  few  days  and  try  once  more  to  recover  my  equi- 
librium.   Then — ^we'll  see." 

He  took  her  right  glove  off  and  kissed  her  hand 
with  cool  lips.  Then  he  went.  But  she  walked  on 
for  a  little  toward  Morningside  Park.    Frost  and 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  253 

rain  had  covered  the  trees  and  bushes,  which 
crackled  under  their  glittering,  silver  dress.  There 
was  a  faery  gleaming,  a  faery  silence  in  the  park — 
the  icy  calm  and  restfulness  of  Winter.  Frances 
stood  and  gazed,  lost  in  thought,  upon  the  strange 
loneliness  of  the  scene.  Then  her  eyes  sought  the 
heights,  on  which  the  sky,  filled  with  the  last  faint 
glow  of  sunset,  seemed  to  lean.  The  colour  faded, 
and  a  few  large  stars  swung  into  view  over  the  mo- 
tionless tops  of  the  bare  poplars.  She  stood  still,  in 
wordless,  breathless  adoration.  Her  mother  was 
sick  unto  death;  he  who  should  have  been  her  hus- 
band was  bent  upon  strange  wanderings  from  the 
appointed  path;  her  life  lay  under  the  shadows  of 
night — ^but  the  great  stars  consoled  her,  giving,  as 
is  their  wont,  hope  to  her  who  was  hopeless,  and  joy 
to  her  who  was  in  the  sore  travail  of  sorrow. 


XIX 

Christmas  Eve  came  with  a  whirl  of  snow. 
Frances  had  hardly  remembered  the  coming  of  it, 
and  wondered  how  so  light  a  thing  as  her  forgetful- 
ness  could  pierce  so  deep.  In  other  years  she  and 
her  mother  and  father  had  been  wont,  for  this  short 
season,  to  put  away  all  care.  There  had  crept  Into 
the  little  dwelling  a  feeling  of  unity  and  love,  and 
happiness  of  a  homely,  child-like  kind.  She  looked 
at  the  snow-flakes  falling  steadily  on  the  street,  and 
thought  of  the  Christmas  feelings  of  her  childhood, 
of  Andersen's  Winter  story  which  she  connected 
with  them,  and  of  the  two  Northland  children  who 
sang  of  the  coming  of  the  Christ-child.  How  every- 
thing had  changed!  How  life  had  taken  and  es^ 
tranged  her  from  her  old  self !  Sitting  here  In  the 
twilight  at  the  window-pane,  watching  the  snow- 
flakes  that  now  fell  softller,  Frances  brooded  deeply 
and  almost  fearfully  upon  the  strangeness  of  all 
things.  .  .  .  Dr.  Garnett  came  In  slowly  from  the 
next  room  and  sat  down  close  to  her.  His  mood 
seemed  to  be  In  harmony  with  hers. 

*54 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  255 

**Do  you  want  your  playthings,  little  girl?" 

She  smiled  and  nodded. 

*'Do  you  remember  how  the  fir-tree  used  to 
smell?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  yes,  child." 

"The  trimmings  must  be  somewhere  still,"  she 
said,  "the  gilt  chains,  and  the  glass  balls  and  the 
candle-holders." 

"You  think  those  were  happy  days — now?" 

"How  happy!" 

The  tears  came  In  spite  of  herself,  but  she  still 
looked  at  her  father. 

"We  must  all  put  away  our  playthings,  one  by 
one,"  he  said.  "The  trimmings  of  the  Christmas 
tree  are  not  the  hardest  to  give  up." 

They  were  both  startled  by  the  ringing  of  the 
outer  bell.  Frances  went  to  the  door  and  returned, 
pale  and  dry-eyed,  carrying  a  bunch  of  lustrous 
crimson  roses  and  a  small  box.  She  laid  the  roses 
on  the  table,  opened  the  box  and  displayed  a  jew- 
elled bracelet.  She  placed  it  next  to  the  flowers  and 
then  stood  still,  hesitating.  She  touched  the  roses 
and  carried  one,  that  had  fallen,  to  her  face.  Its 
fragrance  smote  upon  her  senses  and  brought  a 
wave  of  passionate  yearning  and  regret.  The  deep 
emotion  gave  her  strength  to  turn  and  speak. 


2s6  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"Julian  has  sent  these,"  she  said  softly. 

"I  see  that."    Her  father's  voice  was  stern. 

She  turned  In  an  attitude  of  defence. 

"He  is—" 

"Not  your  husband — "  Dr.  Garnett  cut  her 
short.  "And  not  that  alone.  He  has  now  even 
lost  the  right  to  be  your  friend." 

She  felt  the  blood  surge  Into  her  head  with  the 
passionate  Impulse  to  defend  Julian.  And  thus  her 
living  love  of  him  stood  clear.  But  she  restrained 
herself. 

"Why  has  he  lost  all  right?" 

"Because  he  has  wronged  you ;  because  he  might 
have  shielded  you — even  from  yourself." 

"Why  do  you  blame  him  alone?  You  were  not 
so  severe — at  first." 

"I  see  that  you  love  him,  my  dear.  You  must 
do — what  you  must.    I  had  hoped — " 

"That  I  would  not  return  to  him?" 

"Yes.    I  can  see  no  peace  for  you — there." 

She  leaned  with  her  two  hands  on  the  table  and 
bent  her  head  forward. 

"You  are  right,  papa,  and  I  want — peace.  I  am 
not  going  back  to-day  or  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  try 
to — to  alter  the  conditions.     But,  finally   .    .    ." 

Dr.  Garnett  looked  searchingly  at  her. 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  257 

'Trances,  I  have  had,  at  times,  a  suspicion;  it  has 
haunted  me." 

She  did  not  avoid  his  eyes. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  shall  be  a 
mother.  But  you  do  not  know  me  if  you  think  I 
will  return  for  that  reason.  I  will  not  be  forced. 
If  my  free  will  does  not  take  me,  nothing  shall." 

"That  Is  sheer  perversity.  You  have  not  made 
the  world;  you  will  not  change  it.  You  must  rely 
upon  the  experience  of  mankind,  and  that  experi- 
ence dictates  as  your  first  duty  to  give  your  child  a 
father.    I  am  sorry  that  I  urged  you  not  to  go." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  have  had  glimmer- 
ings of  such  a  truth ;  that  we  must  rest  upon  wider 
decisions  than  our  own.  But  I  know  that  the  fact 
of  my  motherhood  alone  would  not  compel  me.  It 
may  be  wrong — ^but   .    .    ." 

"We  are  what  we  are.  But  we  must  try,  try 
to  do  the  Will  of  God." 

"How  shall  we  know  it?" 

Dr.  Garnett's  eyes  again  became  dreamy  and 
serene. 

"The  knowledge  Is  always  given  us.  Only,  some- 
times, we  do  not  recognise  It  and  so — ^pass  It  by." 

Frances  turned  pale,  for,  without  warning,  a 
heavy  fall  sounded  near  the  room.    The  sound  was 


258  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

dull,  strange,  fatal,  and  she  felt  certain  that  it  was 
her  mother.  She  followed  her  father  into  the  hall. 
There  they  found  Mrs.  Garnett,  who  had  evidently 
tried  to  come  to  them,  lying  upon  her  face.  In 
some  occult  way,  from  the  very  fold  of  the  dressing- 
gown  that  covered  her  mother,  Frances  divined  that 
that  which  lay  upon  the  floor  was  no  longer  a  being 
but  a  thing,  and  the  tragic  horror  of  it  gripped  her 
heart. 

They  carried  Mrs.  Garnett  to  her  room  and  sum- 
moned other  physicians,  but  with  a  recognition  of 
the  futility  of  such  action.  It  was  done  hopelessly 
and  mechanically.  Despite  her  terror  and  grief, 
there  came  to  Frances  the  vision  (more  clearly  re- 
membered later)  of  the  calm  upon  her  father's  face 
through  all  the  sad  offices  of  the  occasion  and  the 
hour.  She  herself  was  strangely  stricken  and  over- 
whelmed with  a  grief  that  had  in  It  an  element  of 
the  impersonal.  Never  before  had  she  seen  death, 
and  though,  like  all  men,  she  could  speak  of  It 
glibly  enough,  the  staggering  fact — ^the  fact  that, 
first  seen,  throws  us  Into  an  Incommunicable  despair 
— ^was  new  to  her.  This  body  that  had  borne  her, 
that.  In  her  childhood,  had  been  to  her  the  essence 
of  life,  with  which  her  tortured  mind  refused  to 
connect  the  thought  of  matter  that  can,  like  tree 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  259 

or  flower,  know  a  complete  dissolution — this  body 
was  no  longer  her  mother,  but  a  thing  dumb  and 
weirdly  estranged.  In  the  night-watches,  terror 
shook  her  over  the  intolerable  fate  of  man.  She 
felt  a  wild  rebellion,  an  impulse  to  let  all  control  of 
self  go,  to  hurl  herself  blindly  against  the  walls  of 
the  room  in  which  her  mother  lay  in  silence.  The 
loss  of  identity,  seen  at  the  moment  of  death  so 
sharply — that  seemed  the  one  supreme  and  im- 
medicable woe,  the  terror  before  which  men,  futile 
phantoms  in  the  shadow  of  its  certainty,  should  reel 
with  hoarse  desperation  under  the  lurid  mockery 
of  the  sun. 

Dr.  Garnett  shared  her  watch,  speaking  to  her 
comforting  words.  But  in  the  room  floated  a  griev- 
ous odour  of  carbolic  acid  that  seemed  to  wring  all 
her  senses  so  that  she  scarcely  heard  his  gentle  voice. 
At  last  dawn  crept  up  stealthily  and  stretched  thin, 
pallid  fingers  through  the  screened  windows.  Dr. 
Garnett  arose. 

"Let  us  go,  my  daughter,  and  rest  a  little.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  done  here." 

She  looked  slowly  about  her. 

"No;  I  suppose  not." 

They  stepped  out  into  the  hallway  and  he  put  his 
arm  on  her  shoulder. 


26o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

"Get  some  coffee,  my  dear,  and  a  roll — some- 
thing for  both  of  us;  we  need  it." 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering,  and  went  on. 

"Yes;  do  just  that,  however  heartless  it  may 
seem.  Nothing  can  serve  us  in  the  face  of  death 
but  life^ — and  the  simplest  things  are  the  best." 

Frances  went  into  the  kitchen  that  looked 
strangely  white  In  the  sullen  dawn.  She  could 
scarcely  force  herself  to  use  the  dishes  and  utensils 
that  now  her  mother  would  never  touch  again.  Here 
— the  thought  overwhelmed  her — had  centred  the 
life  of  the  woman  who  had  given  her  life.  Here 
had  been  passed  thase  tragically  futile  years — not 
by  any  compulsion  (the  necessary  work  could  have 
been  done  with  light  touch  and  swift  forgetfulness) , 
but  through  some  warped  energy  of  self-torture  and 
self-humiliation.  Mrs.  Gamett  had  never  trans- 
formed the  wearier  duties  of  her  life  into  contribu- 
tions to  some  fairer  end,  but  had  wilfully  submitted 
her  soul  to  their  sway.  The  shadows  of  the  long, 
ignoble  years  made  her  death  more  piteous  to  Fran- 
ces. Why  had  God  not  given  her  some  loftier 
strain  by  which  to  conquer  for  her  life  some  element 
of  dignity  and  loveliness  ?  Why  had  He  made  both 
of  her  life  and  death  a  thing  of  such  intolerable 
pathos  ?    Futile,  futile — the  word  beat  like  a  pulse 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  261 

in  Frances'  head.  And  yet  not  wholly  so,  for  the 
dead  woman  had  been  a  mother  and  had  not  lost 
the  love  of  her  child.  The  thought  consoled  Fran- 
ces deeply;  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  kitchen- 
table  and  wept  with  a  sense  of  relief.  Then  she 
completed  her  simple  preparations  and  brought  in 
the  food  and  drink. 

Dr.  Garnett  looked  troubled. 

"I  must  go  out,  Frances.  There  Is  much  to  be 
attended  to  and  I  can't  leave  you  alone." 

Frances  could  not  face  the  thought  of  being  left 
alone  here  and  now.  Then,  with  a  flash  that,  for 
a  second,  rendered  the  whole  world  luminous  to  her, 
she  remembered  that  there  was  one  who  loved  her. 
She  looked  straight  at  her  father. 

*'Send  Julian  here!" 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head. 

*'I  am  glad  to  see  you  feel  that  you  can  turn  to 
him." 

He  arose  and  soon  went  from  the  flat,  and  Fran- 
ces heard  his  receding  footsteps  upon  the  stairs. 
She  summoned  all  her  vital  forces  to  conquer  the 
dread  that  threatened  to  overwhelm  her.  Dim  an- 
cestral terrors  crept  Into  her  soul,  weird  racial  mem- 
ories; she  saw  white  shadows  behind  her,  felt 
ghostly  hands  upon  her,  and  trembled  at  the  casual 


262  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

waving  of  a  curtain  in  the  morning  wind.  She  lifted 
a  shade  and  looked  out  on  the  street.  It  was  white 
with  snow  and  silent  under  an  iron-grey  sky.  This 
was  Christmas  Day,  but  to  her  a  day  of  desolation. 
The  clock  upon  the  mantel  beat  out  the  endless  min- 
utes like  a  pulse — ^with  a  fateful  throb.  All  things 
seemed  inhuman  to  her  and  relentless;  mercy  had 
perished  out  of  the  universe — ^mercy  and  life;  and 
there  were  left  decay  and  cruelty  and  dumb  de- 
spair.   .    .    . 

The  door-bell  shrilled  in  mockery  of  the  silence 
of  death.  Frances  ran  along  the  hallway,  with  fear 
at  her  heels,  and  once  more,  after  the  lapse  of  many 
weeks,  felt  Julian's  strong  arms  fold  about  her. 

"My  poor  child,  you  are  all  alone?'* 

"Yes;  it  was  awful.'* 

He  nodded. 

"I  understand.  We're  in  the  grip  of  things  with 
which  we  have  no  concern.  You  feel  a  peculiar 
tragedy  in  the  fact  that  it's  Christmas  Day.  Of 
course,  that  is  irrelevant.    .    .    ." 

She  led  him  in,  and  they  sat  down  side  by  side 
on  a  sofa.  He  seemed  pale,  and  she  noticed  sud- 
denly that  his  hair  had  grown  grey  at  the  temples. 
The  sight  gave  her  a  feeling  of  infinite  sadness,  of 
the  piteousness  of  all  things. 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  263 

"WeVe  both  had  a  hard  time,  Julian." 
He  pressed  her  hand. 
"Yes." 

"And  it  all  comes  to  that,"  she  continued,  and 
pointed  to  the  room  in  which  her  mother  lay. 
His  sombre  eyes  turned  to  her. 
"Ah,  dear,  that's  not  the  worst.    That  means — 


rest." 


"And  loss  of  everything — everything?" 

"Fm  afraid  so.  Our  knowledge  of  the  universe 
leaves  no  hope  for  the  survival  of  a  conscious  self. 
But  I  think  we  have  moments  when  we  acquiesce 
gladly  in  this  fact." 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"No,  Julian,  no.  We  can't,  we  mustn't;  it  turns 
all  life  to  death.  Think  of  my  mother,  my  poor 
mother  I  She  was  kind  and  good,  but — you  know, 
you  understand — so  warped  and  stunted  by  life. 
And  if  this  is  the  end.  If  she's  to  have  no  other 
chance,  .  .  .  Julian,  it's  that  thought  that  gives 
me  no  peace." 

He  spoke  softly. 

"You  think  it  matters  whether  there's  another 
chance  because  It  matters  to  you.  What  does  the 
soulless  universe,  what  do  the  infinite  constellations 
care  whether  one  poor  human  woman  had  the  right 


264  THE   BROKEN    SNARE 

chance  or  not?  Life  evolves — life  disintegrates. 
In  the  beginning  there  was  silence  ...  in  the 
end  there  will  be  silence.  Dear,  we  must  use  the 
little  life  we  have  as  best  we  can.    It's  all  we  have." 

She  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"Frances,"  he  said,  "your  duty  here  is  nearly 
done.    When  are  you  coming  to  me?" 

The  question  frightened  her. 

"Fm  tired,  Julian,  and  wretched.  Don't  ask 
me   .    .    .   wait!" 

His  grip  on  her  hand  tightened  and  he  whis- 
pered : 

"Are  you  coming?    Are  you  coming?" 

She  knew  from  of  old  his  fault  of  sudden  anger, 
and  sat  up. 

"Julian,  be  pitiful   .    .    .   my  mother   .    .    ." 

And,  as  of  old,  he  looked  remorseful. 

"Forgive  me,  dear.  But  you  are  life,  life — my 
life!" 

She  shrank,  at  this  hour,  from  the  resonant  pas- 
sion in  his  voice. 

"We  must  wait,  Julian." 

She  arose  and  stood  before  him.  He  regarded 
her — nunlike  in  her  black  dress  and  with  her  pallid 
face — and,  bending  down,  kissed  her  hands. 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  265 

"I  can  wait.  .  .  .  Is  anything  to  be  done  ?" 

"No." 

Thereafter  they  sat  for  an  hour  in  silence  until 
men  came  to  perform  the  last,  sad  offices  for  the 
dead.  With  them  came  Dr.  Garnett.  He  kissed 
Frances  and  then  turned  to  Julian. 

"I  thank  you  for  coming.  There  Is  nothing  more 
that  you  can  do.'* 

Julian  arose,  bearing  himself  with  quiet  dignity 
under  the  older  man's  Implied  rebuke. 

"I  wish  to  come  to-morrow." 

"If  you  will." 

Julian  turned  to  Frances  and  kissed  her  on  the 
forehead. 

"Remember  what  I  told  you.    .    .    ." 

Flowers  came  from  Dr.  Garnett's  colleagues, 
from  a  few  acquaintances,  and  flowers  that  Julian 
had  caused  to  be  sent:  roses  and  violets  and  lllies- 
of-the-valley.  The  heavy  fragrance  of  the  flowers 
in  the  little  flat  sank  upon  Frances'  senses  and 
numbed  her.  Grief,  remembrance,  passion,  regret, 
despair — all  were  drowned  and  whelmed  In  the 
strange,  poignant  odour  of  the  flowers.  She  passed, 
tearless  and  calm,  from  room  to  room,  scarcely  real- 
ising the  stern,  irrevocable  rite  that  the  morrow 
would  bring  forth. 


XX 


No  more  snow  fell  during  the  night,  but  the  grey 

of  the  heavens  had  deepened  and  the  city  lay  In 

dimness.    It  was  bitterly  cold,  and  Frances  shivered 

forlornly  Into  her  clothes.     She  wondered  at  what 

seemed  to  her,  this  morning,  the  bitter  cold  In  her 

own  heart.    All  the  well-springs  of  emotion  were 

dry.     She  looked  listlessly  out  Into  a  dead,  grey 

world.  Very  vaguely  her  spirit  detached  Itself  from 

the  agony  of  the  time,  and  here — In  her  little  room 

— held  counsel  with  Itself  over  the  things  that  had 

come  Into  her  life.     Memory,  which,  at  the  few 

halting-places  of  her  troubled  existence,  asserted  Its 

sway  so  strongly  in  her,  absorbed  the  throbbing 

sorrow  that  should  have  been  hers.  Into  a  larger 

mood — a  mood  less  piercing,  no  less  sorrowful,  but 

with  a  nobler  sorrow.     She  thought  of  the  blither 

years  of  her  girlhood,  the  aching  dreams  of  her 

young  maturity,  of  the  coming  of  love,  of  many 

days  and  hours  that  stood  out  from  the  wreck  of 

the  half -forgotten  past.     Each  of  these  days  or 

266 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  267 

hours  had  clothed  this  little  room  with  its  own  at- 
mosphere ;  and  now  the  four  narrow  walls  and  the 
simple  objects  that  hid  their  bareness  had  the  power 
to  resuscitate,  through  subtlest  associations,  the  very 
spiritual  note  that  belonged  to  each  pregnant  period 
in  the  obliterated  years.  All  that  was  over  now. 
One  thought,  one  memory,  the  sense  of  one  fragile 
human  action  lost  forever,  would  hide  all  others 
In  the  Immensity  of  Its  shadow.  Her  mother 
would  never  come  again,  at  the  day's  end,  to  smooth 
the  hair  from  her  forehead  and  commit  her  to  the 
blessedness  of  sleep.  The  motherless  child  arose 
in  Frances  and  tasted  all  the  bitterness  of  the  one 
loss  that  marks  a  pitiless  period  in  our  lives.  Yet 
she  remained  calm,  with  the  grey,  dreary  calm  of 
the  sky  and  the  trodden  snow  upon  which  she 
looked. 

She  prepared  breakfast  for  her  father  and  herself 
and  took  her  accustomed  place  at  the  table.  She 
found  herself  noting  all  things  with  wonderful  dis- 
tinctness; the  Interior  before  her  became  an  etch- 
ing of  firm  and  definite  lines.  Her  father's  face 
was  white  and  delicately  touched  by  age.  His  wrin- 
kles seemed  the  slow  accretions  (they  were  more 
deeply  marked  than  usual  this  morning)  of  sorrow 
and  its  wisdom,  ruling  many  quiet  hours  devoid  of 


268  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

vain  and  passionate  strife,  and  preserving  even  In 
Its  depths  something  of  a  Rne  measure  and  sobriety. 
The  clear,  old,  blue  eyes  looked  Into  hers. 

"You  must  be  brave  to-day,  dear.  It's  the  hard- 
est day.'' 

She  understood  him  fully. 

"We  have  not  learned,"  he  went  on,  "to  lay  away 
our  dead  simply  and  reverently.  We  make  a  black 
show  of  It — a  strident  horror  of  what  should  be 
the  most  peaceful  thing  In  the  world." 

She  felt  her  calm  disintegrate  under  his  grave 
words. 

"I  can  bear  It  all,  I  think,  papa — all — ^but  not 
speech !" 

He  kissed  her  forehead  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

"Be  ready  at  ten." 

During  the  hour  that  followed  she  mastered  her- 
self with  difficulty.  A  sick  oppression  settled  upon 
her  chest,  a  weight  of  unshed  tears  and  unlamented 
sorrows.  It  seemed  to  her  suddenly  that  to-day 
life  was  asking  too  much ;  that  there  should  be  for 
her  some  door  of  merciful  escape;  that  she  should 
be  able  to  flee  far  Into  the  open,  away  from  the 
dread  trappings  of  these  obsequies,  and  be  alone — 
calmly  and  nobly  alone — with  her  grief.    But  men 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  269 

and  women,  she  •knew,  would  stamp  such  an  attempt 
to  escape  as  the  last  irreverence,  the  crowning  turpi- 
tude of  a  callous  heart.  The  world  demands  not 
only  a  show  of  grief,  but  a  show  rigidly  adapted  to 
its  coarse  perceptions ;  and  Frances,  bearing  always 
in  her  mind  the  failure  of  the  central  action  in  her 
life,  was  in  no  mood  to  defy  the  edicts  of  society. 
Slowly,  painfully,  summoning  all  her  strength,  she 
started,  with  a  calm  exterior,  to  accompany  her 
mother  upon  the  last  journey.    .    .    . 

She  sat  in  the  carriage  beside  her  father,  bearing 
as  best  she  could  the  wearily  slow  pace  of  the  pro- 
cession. Seeing  the  tension  upon  her  pale  face,  he 
pulled  up  the  curtain  next  to  her  and  advised  her 
to  look  out.  Spite  of  the  sad,  grey  weather,  men 
were  busy  upon  the  streets  and  walked  nimbly 
enough,  preoccupied  with  their  affairs.  They  hard- 
ly glanced  at  the  hearse  and  the  carriages,  which 
should  have  reminded  them,  Frances  thought,  as 
by  a  hoarse  and  grieving  bugle-call,  of  their  own 
last  end.  But  they  went*  about  their  business  with 
a  brave  unconcern,  a  forgetfulness  of  their  doom 
that  might  have  seemed  to  her  in  other  moods  splen- 
did, but  now  looked  only  coarse  and  brutish.  In 
quieter  thoroughfares  the  oppression  of  her  heart 
grew  lighter,  and  lighter  yet  when  they  came  to 


270  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

bare  places,  grim  enough  under  the  wintry  sky,  but 
empty  of  the  indecent,  the  blasphemous  activities 
of  man. 

As  she  entered  the  gate  of  the  cemetery,  she  ex- 
perienced a  last  struggle  to  weep,  to  cry  out,  to 
escape  afar.  But  this,  too,  she  mastered,  and  stood 
presently  beside  the  newly  dug  grave.  The  clergy- 
man read  with  simplicity  the  immemorial  words 
of  hope,  and,  as  he  read,  softly,  beautifully,  flake 
by  delicate  flake,  the  snow  began  to  fall.  It  fell 
white  upon  his  black  robe,  upon  her  own  black 
dress,  upon  the  pitiless  earth  and  the  open  grave. 
Then  it  fell  faster  and  thicker.  The  ancient  kind- 
ness of  Nature  folded  her  weary  children,  in  their 
bitter  hour,  in  a  cloak  of  white  austerity,  of  cold 
and  healing  peace.  The  coffin  was  lowered  Into  the 
grave — "earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to 
dust."  But  Frances  carried  in  her  heart  another 
message:  "It  is  sown  in  dishonour;  it  Is  raised  in 
glory:  it  is  sown  in  weakness;  it  is  raised  in  power." 
Somehow,  she  felt,  the  ancient  sanctity  of  these 
words  was  not  of  the  vain  babbling  of  man.  If  the 
oblivion  of  that  cold  earth,  after  the  grievous  dis- 
honour that  life  inflicts  on  us,  were  all,  man  would 
agonise  in  the  madness  of  an  intolerable  despair. 
But  the  universe  does  not  madden  us,  does  not  con- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  271 

fuse  us.  Form  after  form  is  obliterated;  the  an- 
cient truths  which  are  the  conditions  of  life  stand 
fast.  The  grave  was  filled,  and  the  snow  fell  upon 
It  and  It  grew  to  be  a  mound  of  white.  Flowers 
were  laid  upon  the  mound,  but  upon  these,  too,  the 
snow  fell  and  the  crimson  roses  became  argent.  But 
Frances  laid  her  head  against  her  father's  shoulder 
and  wept.    .    .    . 

Throughout  all,  stopping  short  only  at  the  ulti- 
mate moment,  had  been  her  consciousness  of 
Julian's  wistful  eyes.  They  were  not,  as  was  their 
wont,  sombre  or  serious  or  Impassioned,  but  fixed 
upon  her  with  an  indefinite  appeal.  She  pitied  him 
with  an  Impersonal  pity,  for  she  knew,  instinctively, 
of  how  deep  a  struggle  that  reluctant  sweetness 
must  have  been  the  evidence.  But  an  austerer  emo- 
tion than  pity  or  love  held  her.  One  of  the  single, 
fundamental  feelings  of  man^ — common  as  the 
breathed  air  and  as  unobtrusive^ — had  arisen  to  res- 
cue her.  The  cumulative  banality  of  the  mouthing 
ages,  of  creed  and  script,  of  church  and  conventicle, 
had  no  part  In  It.  In  the  presence  of  Inexorable 
fate,  she  had  met  the  unconquerable  hope  of  the 
world.  Alone,  unaided,  she  had  found  It — ^not  as 
a  remembered  teaching  of  childhood,  not  as  an  oft- 
heard    phrase    now    suddenly    grown    luminous. 


272  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

Driven  by  her  own  soul  In  its  hour  of  need,  she  had 
divined  truth  for  herself — truth  that  brought  her 
a  strange  serenity.  She  had  not  huddled  the  indif- 
ferent clay  into  the  wintry  earth:  she  had  surren- 
dered her  mother  into  the  hands  of  God.    . 

The  carriage  drove  back  swiftly,  but  the  sound 
of  wheels  and  horses'  hoofs  was  muffled  by  the  snow 
that  still  fell  softly.  Dr.  Garnett  spoke  little — his 
face  was  drawn  into  lines  of  pain;  and  Frances,  in 
her  new  exaltation,  felt  that  she  would  minister  to 
him  and  protect  him.  In  the  shadowy  room  of 
their  home,  that  spoke  so  tragically  of  the  one  who 
would  never  return  here,  the  old  man,  for  the  first 
time,  broke  down. 

"They  have  laid  my  youth  into  the  grave.  .  .  ." 

"And  mine,"  she  answered  quietly. 

He  lifted  his  head  from  his  hands. 

"Yours,  child?" 

She  came  to  him  swiftly. 

"It  is  so  hard  to  say,  papa.  Everything  that 
matters  is  so  hard  to  say.  But  I  feel  as  if,  until 
to-day,  I  had  been  wandering  .  .  .  blind  .  .  . 
confused." 

His  eyes  cleared  and  held  hers. 

"I  thought  one  could  live  without  faith  of  some 
kind  .  .  .  some  faith  deep  at  the  bottom  of  every- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  273 

thing  else,  that  some  things  are  true  and  some  are 
false — always  .  .  .  and  some  things  right  and  some 
wrong — always,  forever,  no  matter  what  your  .  .  . 
reason  tells  you.    Do  you  understand?'' 

"I  have  tried  to  show  you  that  way." 

"Yes;  and  when  I  stood  out  there  .  .  .  to-day 
...  in  the  snow,  I  knew  that  if  there  were  nothing 
more  than  .  .  .  that,  no  hope  .  .  .  nothing  to 
heal  and  make  up  for  loss — her  loss — ^we'd  all  go 
mad— all  I" 

"I  know  It." 

She  came  still  nearer. 

"The  other  day,  by  the  light  of  his  reason, 
Julian  denied  any  hope.  So  by  the  light  of  the  .  .  . 
reason  he  rules  his  life  and — " 

"Fails  and  must  fail!  Your  own  agony  is  the 
proof.  We  must  live  by  the  experience  of  the  ages, 
by  the  unconquerable  needs  of  the  soul.  The  argu- 
ments of  to-day  are  with  the  arguments  of  yes- 
terday." 

He  had  arisen  and  stood  with  outstretched  arm. 

"I  have  been  a  scientist  all  my  life;  I  have 
sloughed  off  one  intellectual  skin  after  another,  and 
I've  come  back  at  last  to  a  few  fundamentals  that 
are  not  demonstrably,  but  undemonstrably  and  mys- 
tically true.     For  a  moment,  just  now,  I  forgot 


274  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

.  .  .  one  is  so  weak  .  .  .  but  you  have  reminded 


me. 


They  sat  together  quietly  and  long  In  the  dusk. 
Frances  thought  of  her  long  and  bitter  struggles, 
and  knew  that  her  soul  had  always  been  Incorrupti- 
ble, that,  beneath  the  call  of  the  senses  and  the  lure 
of  life.  It  had  been  vigilant.  She  hardly  thought  of 
the  practical  problem  before  her.  She  knew  that 
strength  would  be  hers  even  to  renounce  entirely 
the  love  which  she  still  carried,  strong  and  inviolate, 
in  her  heart.  .  .  . 

Julian  came  the  next  afternoon  and  wandered 
vaguely  about  the  little  drawing-room,  that  still  held 
the  faint  odour  of  funereal  flowers.  Frances,  deep 
In  an  arm-chair,  watched  his  uncertain  movements. 
The  pride  of  her  womanhood  forbade  her  speaking 
a  word  that  might  heal  all.  Narrow* as  the  concep- 
tion seemed,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  break 
through  it,  especially  as  she  saw  clearly  his  compe- 
tent head.  He  needed  no  help.  And  so  her  part 
was  a  passive  one.  He  touched  one  bit  of  brlc-a- 
brac  on  the  mantel,  moved  another  a  little  farther 
back,  and  tapped  the  fender  with  his  foot.  Then 
he  turned  abruptly. 

"You  need  air,  light  .  .  ." 

"I  must  stay  with  father  for  the  present." 


•THE    BROKEN    SNARE  275 

"Of  course;  that  is  only  right.  But  how  long, 
and  what  then?'* 

**How  long?"  she  repeated.  *'He  Is  old  and  not 
strong,  so  my  strength  must  be  his." 

"And  I?"  he  broke  out,  almost  petulantly. 

The  light  of  her  firmer  beliefs  illuminated  the 
ruthlessness  of  his  desires. 

"You  have  had — your  share." 

He  looked  at  her  in  consternation. 

"You  wrong  me,  Frances,  consciously;  God 
knows  you  do.  We  can't  separate  absolutely  the 
senses  and  the  heart.  I  have  loved  you,  not  purely 
In  a  sentimental  way — I  don't  understand  that — but 
with  the  best  love  in  me." 

^^Have  loved?"  She  could  not  help  emphasising 
the  first  word. 

He  shook  his  head  angrily. 

"You  quibble*  over  words,  hasty  and  ill-consid- 
ered. It's  a  question  of  life  itself  for  us.  Are  you 
coming  back  to  me?"  His  eyes  included  signifi- 
cantly her  whole  figure.  "You  have  the  strongest 
right  to  my  protection  and  love.    Are  you  coming  ?" 

He  arose  and  they  looked  at  each  other  across 
the  width  of  the  little  room.  The  air  seemed  to 
quiver  with  the  unspoken  words  that,  for  both,  pos- 
sessed the  field  of  consciousness.    Once^  twice,  his 


276  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

lips  opened  and  closed;  his  hands  sought  vague 
nothings  on  the  mantel-shelf.  To  Frances  the  room 
seemed  to  darken  and  shake;  her  dry  throat 
throbbed,  her  fingers  tingled  curiously.  ...  As 
from  a  great  distance  she  heard  her  own  low  voice. 

"No." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  grew  pale^ — for  an  in- 
stant. Afterward  a  sullen  look,  that  she  knew  well, 
darkened  his  eyes.  His  lids  drooped  and  his  whole 
figure  seemed  to  shrink.  Then  slowly,  with  lumber- 
ing steps,  without  a  backward  glance,  he  strode 
from  the  room.  Her  limbs  seemed  to  melt  under 
her,  but  she  dragged  herself  to  the  window.  She 
saw  him  go  forth  from  the  house  and  walk  slowly 
westward  to  Mornlngslde  Heights.  At  the  comer 
of  the  Avenue  he  turned,  and  only  the  red  disc  of 
the  setting  sun  that  swung  over  the  heights  glared 
balefully  into  her  face.  Gone,  gone! — she  re- 
peated the  word  with  toneless  persistence.  She 
had  over-estimated  her  strength,  forgotten  the  forti- 
fying power  of  the  consciousness  that,  until  now,  he 
had  been  hers  even  in  his  absence.  All  light  faded 
from  her  soul :  all  desire  to  incarnate  truth  in  action 
seemed  pitiable,  absurd,  monstrous.  Her  heart 
cried  out  after  him.  Now  that  it  was  too  late  she 
would  have  given  life  for  a  touch  of  his  hand.    She 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  277 

turned  from  the  window  with  the  impulse  to  hide 
in  her  room,  but  on  the  way  she  met  her  father. 
He  took  her  into  his  arms. 

''Child,"  he  said,  "you  must  not  despair.  One 
conquers  even  the  bitterness  of  death." 

She  raised  herself  with  a  last  remnant  of  des- 
perate energy. 

"There  is  bitterness,"  she  cried,  "beyond  the  bit- 
terness of  death  I" 

Then  the  world  turned  black  before  her  eyes. 


XXI 

A  SHARP  illness  followed.  The  strains  of  the 
past  months  had  culminated  in  that  vision  of  Julian 
turning  the  corner — a  vision  so  prosaic  to  the  ex- 
ternal eye,  so  charged  for  her  with  final  and  fatal 
meaning.  She  lay  in  her  bed,  weak  and  dreamy, 
and  watched  a  little  spider  running  to  and  fro  on 
the  ceiling.  Day  and  night  blended  with  each 
other;  light  and  darkness  dislimned  softly;  time 
stood  still;  the  quivering  nerves,  the  struggling 
heart,  the  tired  brain,  were  mercifully  resting  in  a 
long,  dim  period  of  moveless  calm.  Then  an  awak- 
ening came,  gradual  and  delightful — an  awakening 
into  a  beautiful  bodily  life  that  rested  contentedly 
in  itself.  Food  and  drink  had,  to  her,  a  fresh  and 
exquisite  savour.  She  came  to  be  grateful  for  sim- 
ple and  natural  things  which,  under  the  pressure 
of  intenser  preoccupations,  she  had  never  noticed. 
She  sat,  propped  up  by  pillows,  near  the  window, 
and  saw  children  playing  in  the  street.  Their  ges- 
tures seemed  to  her  of  an  engaging  grace,  their 

278 


THE   BROKEN   SNARE  279 

voices  of  a  purity  of  bird-like  tone,  of  which  she 
had  never  seemed  conscious.  The  natural  exercise 
of  the  senses  became  a  source  of  joy.  She  read  a 
little,  but  it  still  tired  her.  And  so  her  eyes  wan- 
dered from  the  book  before  her  to  the  blue  sky  and 
to  the  changeful,  floating  clouds.  .  .  . 

From  time  to  time  she  tried  to  regain  a  sense  of 
the  continuity  of  her  life ;  to  recover,  almost  with  an 
idle  curiosity,  an  entire  realisation  of  the  emotions 
that  had  swayed  her  so  imperiously.  In  vain.  Even 
the  fact  that  she  would  not  now  be  a  mother  left 
her  unmoved.  As  the  weeks  went  by  and  her  body 
grew  stronger,  her  memory  became  clear  and  defi- 
nite. But  the  eye  of  her  soul  saw  herself  and  others 
only  as  figures  in  a  grotesque  and  violent  panto- 
mime. She  recovered  the  gesture  of  life — not  the 
full  impulse  that  had  shaped  it.  Thus  came  to  her 
the  solemn  yet  not  wholly  joyless  knowledge  of  the 
pervasive  mortality  of  human  things — the  knowl- 
edge that  existence  is  sustained  and  made  endurable 
only  by  the  death  of  that  within  us  which  once 
seemed  life  itself.  Not  that  she  had  forgotten  that 
grave  upon  which  the  snow  had  fallen,  or  had 
ceased  to  love  the  man  to  whom  she  had  given  her 
youth.  But  grief  and  love  had  lost  forever  the  In- 
tolerable sharpness,  the  wild  turbulence  of  the  past, 


28o  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

and  had  assumed  a  decent  sobriety.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  she  heard  the  music  of  life  no  longer  as  a 
crying  of  Impassioned  violins  or  a  shrilling  of  angry 
flutes,  but  as  an  organ  melody,  strong,  solemn,  and 
subdued. 

The  mirror  showed  lines  in  her  forehead  and 
about  her  mouth,  and  even  In  her  hair  were  strands 
of  grey.  And  the  smile  with  which  she  met  these 
discoveries  was,  to  her  mind,  the  final  triumph  of 
that  richness  of  experience  and  gain  In  character 
which  she  felt  to  be  hers.  She  recognised  clearly 
enough  how  narrow  her  experience  had  been,  but 
also  the  boundless  wealth  of  Its  extraordinary  depth 
and  Intensity  for  all  the  years  to  come. 

As  her  slow  convalescence  gave  place  to  a  gentle 
glow  of  health,  she  had  many  talks  with  her  father, 
who  had  cared  for  her  tenderly  and  almost  alone 
during  her  Illness.  The  talks  were  peaceful  and 
comforting,  but  for  the  fact  that  he  seemed,  at 
times,  on  the  verge  of  an  utterance  that  he  feared. 
Hence,  upon  a  day  when  she  seemed  to  herself 
stronger  than  was  her  wont,  she  urged  him  to 
speak.    He  stroked  his  beard. 

"It  was  to  be  feared,"  he  said  In  an  almost  pro- 
fessional voice,  "that  any  excitement  might  cause 
a  relapse." 


THE   BROKEN    SNARE  281 

She  smiled. 

"We  will  take  that  for  granted,  dear  father. 
You  are  forgiven  for  withholding  whatever  you 
have  withheld.    And  now — ?" 

"Some  weeks  after  you  were  taken  ill  a  letter 
came  for  you." 

He  placed  his  hand  on  hers,  as  if  to  make  her 
feel  the  security  of  his  presence  and  his  love.  She 
held  it  firmly,  for  a  great  fear  came  into  her  heart — 
a  fear  that  the  old  agony  would  rack  her  again 
and  the  old  wounds  bleed. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  she  said  softly. 

He  gave  it  to  her  and  left  the  room. 

She  sat  there  with  the  letter  in  her  lap  and  laid 
her  pale  hand  on  it.  Weeks  must  have  passed  since 
he  had  written  it:  what  weeks  to  him?  A  vision 
of  his  strong  impatience  came  to  her,  of  the  impas- 
sioned energy  with  which  he  sought  to  bend  the 
world  to  his  will.  Ignorant  of  her  long  illness,  he 
must  have  interpreted  her  silence  as  a  final  repudia- 
tion. He  must  have  suffered;  for  she  knew,  and 
was  glad  in  the  knowledge,  even  though  it  never 
bore  fruit,  that  she  was  rooted  in  his  very  soul.  The 
thought  gave  her  strength  to  break  the  seal  and 
read  the  few  lines  within.  His  words  were  reticent 
and  almost  halting.    He  asked  her  to  meet  him  for 


2821  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

a  last  time,  but  drew  from  his  request  none  of  its 
possibilities  of  pathos.  For  his  reluctance  to  make 
emotional  capital  of  the  situation,  to  turn  its  inevi- 
table sadness  into  a  direct  appeal,  she  honqjured 
jand  admired  him.  No  fear  of  a  renewal  of  the  old 
conflict  came  to  her  now.  Spring  was  at  the  door, 
peace  in  her  heart,  and,  deeper  than  both,  the 
strength  to  overcome  without  vain  strife  and  cry. 

Her  father  re-entered  the  room,  and  his  blue 
eyes  rested  anxiously  upon  her.  She.  felt  that  he 
had  the  right  to  know. 

"Julian  wishes  to  see  me  again." 

"And  will  you  consent?" 

She  answered  by  another  question.  ^ 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  my  life?  And  yet,"  she 
added  slowly,  "I  have  learned  how  to  bear.  An- 
other struggle  like  the  first  is  impossible.  I  can 
do  only  one  thing." 

"And  that  is?" 

"Wait!" 

She  lay  back  In  her  chair  and  looked  up  into  the 
boundless  blue  of  the  sky.  A  mild  wind  came  in 
through  the  window  and  swept  lightly  over  her 
forehead.  Sitting  there,  she  dreamed  a  dream  of 
patience  and  resignation,  of  a  possible  life  near 
great  woods  shadowing  still  waters — a  life  of  un- 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  283 

impassioned  surrender  to  the  influence  of  eternal 
things.  To  renounce,  to  be  content,  to  wait  with 
impregnable  faith  for  the  things  that  were  her  own 
and  of  which  time  could  not  rob  her — that  seemed 
now,  to  her  vision,  the  true  ideal.  How  it  was  to 
come  about  she  did  not  know  and  was  satisfied  not 
to  ask.  She  only  knew  that  she  had*  gained  a  peace 
that  was  independent  of  temporal  and,  therefore, 
transitory  things. 

Days  came  and  went  and  a  wild,  young  Spring 
shook  with  its  winds  the  trees  of  Morningside  Park. 
The  poplars  on  the  heights  bowed  toward  each 
other;  the  new  leaves  twinkled  in  the  sunlight;  the 
living  rocks  grew  warm.  Frances  was  now  per- 
mitted to  walk  here.  She  inhaled  the  fresh  odour 
of  the  earth,  the  stronger  fragrance  of  the  budding 
leafage;  she  laid  her  warm  hands  upon  the  cool 
trunks  of  trees  that  stood  in  shadowy  places,  and 
felt  in  Nature*  a  power  of  spiritual  restoration,  a 
source  of  strength  and  endurance  and  quiet  joy.  It 
was  no  longer  an  echo  of  her  moods  or  a  refuge 
from  them  (in  either  case  a  mere  accessory  of  her 
human  passions)  :  it  rose  above  and  surrounded 
her,  serene,  impersonal,  passionless,  and  taught  her 
something  of  its  own  enduring  calm.  .  .  . 

Only,  at  times,  when  she  returned  home,  the  calm 


284  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

would  leave  her  and  a  human  hope  stir  in  her  heart. 
It  was  a  hope  which  she  could  not  define,  not  even 
put  into  words,  so  vague,  so  fitful  and  so  strange. 
But  she  felt  like  one  who,  wandering  long  and 
weary  ways,  knows  that  he  must,  in  some  golden 
hour,  come  upon  a  bright  fortune  fallen  from  the 
skies.  At  such  moments  she  almost  held  her  breath 
when  she  opened  the  door  of  the  flat,  half-afraid 
that  she  would  find  it  flooded  with  the  light  of  a 
mysterious  splendour.  She  smiled  to  herself  at  the 
intensity  which  the  hope  assumed,  at  her  foolish 
little  delays  before  the  house,  and  the  beating  of 
her  heart  as  she  went  up  the  stairs. 

But  it  was,  at  last,  no  strange  gold  that  she 
found :  it  was  the  sombre,  taciturn  figure  of  Julian, 
leaning  against  the  mantel  of  the  drawing-room. 
She  stopped  at  the  door. 

"You  .  .  .!  you  .  .  .!" 

Her  voice  died  away  as  he  slowly  lifted  his  eyes 
to  her  face. 

"You  did  not  answer  my  letter,"  he  said,  "and 
I  waited  till  even  pride  failed  me.  Here  I  am." 
He  passed  his  hand  over  his  pale  forehead.  "Here 
I  am." 

She  saw  his  profile  outlined  against  the  window. 
His  face  was  thinner  and  sharper  than  of  old,  more 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  285 

deeply  furrowed,  almost  to  ruggedness,  In  these 
few  months.  She  looked  again  and  saw  that  the 
grey  In  his  temples  had  crept  higher;  that  the  dear 
head  that  had  so  often  rested  on  her  bosom  looked 
weary  and  forlorn.  She  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  him. 

"I  could  not  read  your  letter  for  weeks.  I  was 
111." 

"Your  father  told  me  that  just  now.  But 
since  .  .  .?" 

She  dropped  his  hands. 

"What  was  the  use  ?  I  did  not  feel  strong  enough 
for  another  struggle!" 

He  raised  his  head  and  his  resolute  eyes  sought 
hers. 

"There  would  have  been  no — struggle!" 

Joy  fought  In  her  with  an  unreasonable  compas- 
sion for  him,  compassion  for  that  strength  which 
found  It  so  difficult  to  confess  Itself  weakness. 

"You  have  suffered  through  me,"  he  went  on, 
"but  If  you  can  forget!"     . 

She  waved  that  phase  of  It  aside. 

"If  I  could  not  forget  I  never  loved  you." 

He  turned  from  her  to  hide  the  emotion  which 
shook  him. 

"It's  close  here,"  he  said  abruptly,  "stifling.    If 


286  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

you  will  come  with  me  for  a  little  while.  There 
are  things — things  that  must  be  said.  .  .  .  Can't 
we  go  to  the  old  place?" 

A  new  strength  filled  her  and  she  consented. 
They  walked  over  to  the  river,  and  it  was  to  her 
an  inexpressible  joy  to  see  him  again  at  her  side. 
Storms  had  passed  over  them ;  but  she  felt  that  they 
were  one,  despite  the  strange  waywardness  of  his 
soul  and  of  their  fortune.  They  sat  on  a  bench  and 
looked  down  upon  the  river.  He  took  off  his  hat 
and  once  more  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"I  have  lived  years  in  these  past  months,"  he 
said,  "years,  and  I  have  learned  their  lesson." 

She  would  have  given  much  to  make  easier  for 
him  the  words  that  must  be  said.  But  calmly,  deep 
within  her,  she  knew  that  to  hear  them  was  her 
right — a  right  which  it  would  be  dangerous  to  fore- 
go. She  scarcely  moved  during  the  silence  of  his 
voice. 

*T  used  to  think,"  he  continued,  "that  we  should 
not  accept  the  imperfect,  that  we  should  not  risk 
its  dominance  over  us,  that  we  should  resist  the  ele- 
ments of  evil  that  inhere  in  all  human  institutions. 
It  was  a  dream  of  youth  I  One  must  accept,  accept 
the  good,  forget  the  evil,  live  and  be  brave  .  .  . 
that  is  manhood  I" 


THE    BROKEN   SNARE  287 

He  lowered  his  head  a  little  and  spoke  once  more. 

*'It  was  the  selfishness  of  passion,  not  the  sur- 
render of  love.  I  tried  to  evade  life,  life  as  it  is, 
as  it  has  shaped  itself,  slowly,  inevitably;  I  fought 
not  for  a  right,  but  for  an  exemption  from  the  uni- 
versal lot.    It  was  .  .  .  cowardly." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  compassionate  to  him 
In  his  self-abasement. 

"How  did  you  come  to  think  so?" 

"When  I  went  from  you  In  my  pride  and  stub- 
bornness," he  answered;  "when  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  had  lost  you,  then,  at  last,  love  came  and 
taught  me.  My  need  of  you  humbled  me ;  my  need 
of  you  gave  me  a  clearer  vision;  but  even  if  the 
vision  had  not  come,  I  would  have  returned  to  you 
at  your  desire,  upon  your  terms,  becautse — I  love 
your 

The  wind  grew  stronger  and  cooler  and  they 
arose  from  the  seat.  They  chose  a  sinuous  path 
through  the  woodland  of  Riverside  Park  and 
walked  slowly.  Their  footsteps  made  no  sound; 
the  birds  had  fled  or  fallen  asleep.  They  heard 
only  each  other's  tremulous  breathing.  Gradually 
a  twilight  melted  down  among  the  trees,  and,  un- 
consciously, they  walked  closer  together,  their  arms 
touching.    The  hushed  woodland  seemed  to  enfold 


288  THE    BROKEN    SNARE 

them  more  and  more.  But  suddenly,  abruptly,  the 
path  turned  and  they  stood  together  upon  a  prom- 
ontory, the  river  far  below  and  the  sunset  before 
them.  The  trees  and  the  other  shore  were  purple, 
the  sky  blood-red  fading  in  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance to  faintest  mother-of-pearl;  the  river  was  a 
pool  of  molten  bronze.  They  stood  there,  breath- 
less before  this  flaming  splendour  that  lost,  by  in- 
finitesimal degrees,  its  sharpness  and  faded  into  a 
large,  dim  softness  of  empurpled  glow. 

Julian  took  her  two  hands  into  his  and  drew  her 
to  him. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook,  "dear- 
est, I  wanted  to  live  by  the  strength  of  my  pride, 
of  my  power,  of  my  intellect.  But  I  looked  upon 
the  dawn  of  the  morning,  and  saw  you  there;  I 
looked  upon  the  stars  of  the  night,  and  saw  you 
there ;  I  went  away,  wandering  among  the  clefts  of 
the  hills,  and  your  image  was  hidden  in  their  hol- 
lows; I  wrote  and  the  words  grew  into  your  name; 
I  turned  from  the  world  to  find  a  refuge  in  my  soul, 
and  found  you  there  I    Take  me  and  keep  me  I" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  and  then  up  unto  the 
stars  that  began  to  gather  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  come  at  last  from 
the  weary  plains  of  life,  beaten  upon  by  scorching 


THE    BROKEN    SNARE  289 

suns,  choked  with  blood  and  sand,  and  had  emerged 
Into  some  fair,  wide  upland  region  of  cool  waters 
and  spacious  winds,  where  the  fountains  are  white, 
and  the  stars,  where  love  dwells,  and  blessedness, 
and  a  perennial  peace. 


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